


A Box of Butterfly Fish

by Thealmostrhetoricalquestion



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Communication, Complete, Demisexuality, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Harry Potter Next Generation, Light Angst, M/M, Origami, Pining, Sexuality, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-01 06:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18330479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion/pseuds/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion
Summary: About a month after Teddy opens his own store—Lupin’s Paper Peculiarities—James strolls through the door and promptly starts touching things he shouldn’t. He ends up charming the customers far more than the spells on the shelves do.Not just the customers end up charmed, if Teddy is perfectly honest.





	1. Teddy

**Author's Note:**

> Teddy is demisexual in this. I promise to handle it very gently. Thank you @goldentruth813 for setting up the lovely @jeddyfest! I was so excited to write for this, and I hope it’s a sweet read!

Frogs, mud and dragons hold more interest for Teddy than people do. _Not to worry,_ say the adults fondly, _he’s only young. There’s plenty of time for that later._ But nothing changes when he gets older, which is the crux of the matter, really.

*

Teddy doesn’t make a habit of it, swearing and flipping the bird like tiny Victoire. She has a foul mouth regardless of whether she’s speaking English or French. She only curses where adults can’t hear or see her, because she’s sensible, as she likes to primly tell Teddy when she squirms her way out of getting into trouble. She bats her eyelashes and smiles weetly enough that nobody could possibly suspect her of cursing like a sailor.

Teddy hasn’t decided whether he likes Victoire or not yet. She doesn’t like the same things that he likes, but she knows the alphabet backwards and can eat two bananas in under a minute. It’s impressive, even when she’s sick afterwards. 

“Don't know what you were thinking,” Molly Weasley says, tutting as she sends plates pinwheeling across the garden table. “Honestly, the manners in this family. Anyone would think you’d all been raised by wolves!”

Teddy scowls, scuffing his shoe along the tips of the grass. He was _thinking_ that he might as well try it. Swearing is for grown-ups, sure, but he’s seven, and that feels grown up enough to say whatever he wants. It had been exciting at first. There was a bit of a thrill in his chest, like the fizz of stolen champagne, and then the words popped out of his mouth and everything caught up with him.

He regrets it now, slouching in a scratchy jumper—not part of the punishment, but still uncomfortable enough to feel like one—while he watches some of his godparents’ friends’ sister’s nieces run around the Burrow garden. One of them’s got hair that looks like spiky dragon fire, blown upwards. Teddy doesn’t know her name, or why she’s there. There’s a party or something, but he’s not sure because he’s been purposely avoiding all the boring information about it.

The girl whirls around, the hem of her baggy jumper flying out like a fuzzy fan. Teddy stares, intrigued by the colour, wondering if he can replicate it. He’s getting better at changing his hair colour on command these days, and not just letting it ‘run riot with his emotions.’ 

Someone hiccups beside him. Teddy turns, scrunching his nose up reflexively, feeling it shrink to the size of a button mushroom. Ginny’s Great Aunt Muriel lets her hiccups take on a flavour of distaste at this blatant display of magic. Teddy doesn’t like her, or the way she smells. She wears a dress that could also be a tent, in the right circumstance, and she wields a glass of burgundy alcohol like it’s a pointer stick. 

“What’s all this about you being in trouble then, boy?”

Teddy frowns, shrugging slightly. He turns back to the girl with the baggy jumper, commiting the colour to memory. 

Great Aunt Muriel tuts, following his gaze. “Oh, I see. It’s all downhill from here, Molly.” She chortles knowingly, bangles jangling on her wrist. “You’re about the age, aren’t you, ay, Teddy?”

Ron said, the other day, when he thought Teddy wasn’t listening, that he didn't know how Great Aunt Muriel was still alive, and that it must be spite keeping her alive. Teddy doesn’t think she can even remember yesterday, let alone remember enough to make ass-ump-shuns about what he should or should not be doing as a seven-year-old. 

“The age for saying _fuck?”_ Teddy asks sourly. 

He spends the rest of the evening confined to Ron’s old room, wondering what Ginny’s Great Aunt Muriel could see that he just can’t.

He sits in the window for a bit, staring out at the party going on outside. It seems less boring now that he’s not allowed to join in with it. Music drifts up from the garden, led by one of George’s runaway drums, part of a matched set that beat you back with bigger sticks when you got the tempo wrong. 

Sulking, Teddy jumps up and stands in front of Ron’s mirror, covered in a light sheen of dust, and squints until his eyes change colour. He gets them to turn blue by thinking of the sea, the way the light glints off it sometimes in the holiday brochures Gran keeps on her side-table. He pictures new leaves and long, wavy grass; his eyes fade to a deep, dark green. Not exactly the right shade, but close enough. He tries thinking of candyfloss for a bit, but nothing turns pink except for his cheeks, and that might just be a frustrated flush. 

With a sigh, Teddy sits down on the carpet. Ron’s room is bare, just the old bed covered in faded orange sheets, and the bright walls, paler in some places where posters had blanketed them. There’s no toys or drawing things, nothing exciting to do. He’s already eaten his sandwich, and there’s half a glass of juice left beside it. 

His only other companions come in the form of a few books that mostly likely belong to Molly, if he has to make a guess. 

“I’m bored,” Teddy whines, listening to his voice ping off the window and the walls. He collapses against the ground like a starfish, flat on his back, and sighs deeply. 

One of the books falls off the shelf, startling him. It lands with a thud on the ground and tips over, opening roughly halfway through the story. Teddy turns his head on the ground, resting his cheek on the musty carpet, and frowns when the pages start to move.

*

By the time Teddy reaches the age of twelve, he’s well-versed in discarding boxes left and right. People seem to have an obsession with them. _Which one do you fit in?_ they ask. _What do you call yourself? Why do you like wearing that? Who do you like? Why’ve you got that look in your eye that says you want to punch me for being a nosy git?_

Teddy doesn’t want to be inside a box. There’s no appeal there. It’s constricting and tight and—anyway, there isn’t one that fits him perfectly. Too small or too big, not enough room to walk around and add a few homely touches, like Gran says you have to do with new, untouched spaces. 

He’s happy enough with spells and ink and parchment. He’s happy enough with the woods outside, with smuggled Bowtruckles and pockets full of creature treats, with his yellow tie and _bluegreenpink_ hair. He’s happy enough with books in the library, read between the stacks, books about dragons, potions and the history of the world.

It’s a secret, but sometimes. Sometimes, if he thinks very carefully about what he wants to happen, he can coax pictures from the books. If he knows the story well, he can make it come alive with just his hands and his voice. But it’s a secret. He doesn’t tell anybody about that, because it’s quite hard to find any reference to such spells in the texts in the library, and Teddy never actually knows how he’s doing it. He just feels it, the words and the story, and the fizz of the paper beneath his fingers, and there go the pictures. 

There’s a girl that wants to hold his hand and probably kiss him, in second year, when he’s twelve and well-versed in lobbing boxes out the window whenever someone passes one his way. Her name’s Melody something-or-other, and she’s got a voice as sweet as her name, but she giggles too much and doesn’t like traipsing through the mud in the forest they’re not supposed to go in. Which is fair enough, because she flies really fast on a broom and not everybody likes mud, so it sort of balances it out. And the giggling is okay in small doses. 

“Whatcha gonna do when you go out with her, Teddy?” Buggy says. He’s the giggly plump boy in Teddy’s dorm, with nice soft hair and shiny shoes. Teddy’s favourite thing about him is the way he can do a headstand on command, and how good he is at Gobstones. Sometimes he lets Teddy copy his Potions notes because Teddy’s hand-writing is atrocious, and he can’t always read what he’s written, especially not when he wrote it in the smoky haze of the dungeons, where it’s hard to see his own hand. 

Teddy shrugs, flat on his back in his bed, and expels a world-weary sigh. “I dunno, I mean. We’re a bit young for dates, aren’t we? So we’ll probably just go for a walk or something. This would be easier if it was next year and I could take her to Hogsmeade.”

“Yeah, we all know you’re a big romantic. But what are you gonna _do?”_

There’s special emphasis there that gives Teddy pause. He’s not stupid, and he knows what Buggy means, but the answer is: nothing. And even if he wasn’t twelve and nervous, the answer would still be the same. They’re not going to do anything, not the way Buggy means. Teddy doesn’t even feel a particular inclination to hold her hand, if he’s honest. But he can’t say that to a room full of his friends. 

So he says, “Probably kiss her and stuff.”

There’s more giggling all around the room. Teddy scrunches up his nose. Giggling tends to be a reaction to something funny. Did he say the wrong thing? Or is it supposed to be funny and silly, what they’re feeling at this age? Maybe he’s just not feeling it right. Or maybe _he’s_ not right. 

“I wonder what it’s like,” Danny says. “Kissing, I mean.” 

Danny always pretends like he’s too serious for this kind of talk, but ends up getting sucked in anyway. He taps his pen against the desk near the far window and blushes when Teddy turns his head thoughtfully, to look at him sideways. 

“I bet it’s nice,” Sam decides, voice muffled by his pillow. He hasn’t moved in a while, and Teddy would be concerned, but Sam is basically the human version of a sloth. “Bet it’s really nice. That’s what people do, innit? They kiss each other all the time. You wouldn’t do that if you didn't like it, if it weren’t nice.”

Teddy feels his eyebrows go up. That’s too black-and-white for it to be the truth. People do things for all kinds of reasons. He turns it over in his mind, frowning faintly. It’s never really occurred to him that if it doesn't feel nice, he doesn't have to do it. Surely there’s more to it than that. It’s sort of just expected, isn’t it? Kissing? So what happens when you don't want to do it?

Did he have to say yes, when Melody asked him out? Maybe he could have said no. 

“What do you think it’s like, Ted?” Buggy asks. Danny stops tapping his pen, his blush getting worse as he pretends not to wait for an answer. Sam kicks one leg that’s half under the covers and grunts impatiently. 

Teddy doesn’t know why they always have to ask him. He’s not rude or impolite, but he’s not the most welcoming of people either. Not purposefully, anyway. And yet it doesn’t seem to stop people wanting to make him laugh or go for walks or play Quidditch. 

Harry says it’s because Teddy’s got this something special about him, but he’s been saying that ever since he walked into Ron’s room and found Teddy alone on the floor, surrounded by paper chains in varying lengths and boats and hats and fluttering birds, where before there wasn’t even any paper. Molly’s book had been undamaged, full to the brim of its pages, but closer inspection of the paper chains revealed the same print from the book on each link. Teddy could never explain it, the way the pages peeled away and multiplied in his hands, and how he knew exactly what to do to make the boats float in the air. Nor could he explain some of the more complicated paper braids stuffed under his thighs. His hands just did what he wanted them to do, and he felt his way along the paper, folding it with care. 

And Harry hadn’t said much beyond a firm request for him not to swear again. But he’d looked at Teddy differently, like he was waiting for something, like he was something special. 

To be fair, Harry always said there was something special about Teddy, even before that day. 

“Ted?” 

“I expect it’s nice,” Teddy says carefully. “And wet, too.”

There’s more giggling. Teddy doesn’t know if they agree or not: they don't say so through the laughter. He decides to join in rather than let it worry him. 

He doesn’t kiss Melody and stuff. He shows her Eggbert, the Glurvian snail that lives behind Greenhouse Two, and she turns a strange shade of green before scarpering. She’s a dainty thing, but she runs fast like a whippet when she wants to, as fast as she flies. Teddy watches her sprint away in admiration, and then turns to feed Eggbert a nice crunchy stem. 

“I guess I’m just not cut out for this kissing stuff,” Teddy tells Eggbert, aware that talking to a snail is probably one of the reasons why he’s not cut out for this kissing stuff. He’s secretly relieved. “But it’s alright, I think. Harry said he didn't have a first kiss until he was fourteen, and it wasn’t a great one. Very wet, he said, and sad.”

Eggbert oozes, seemingly in agreement, but otherwise chooses to keep his opinions to himself. 

“She was really nice, but it didn't work out,” Teddy says, shrugging, when Buggy asks about Melody later. “I guess it has to be right, doesn’t it?”

Buggy looks devastated at the concept, as though the world has fallen apart at his feet. Sam eyes him, sprawled all over his bed again, where Teddy’s pretty sure he lives. Danny’s not in, but Teddy’s kind of glad about one less set of eyes, since it seems like he’s being stared at from all angles. 

“Yeah, Ted,” Sam says, flashing him a quick, almost pitying smile while Buggy bemoans the state of the world. “Reckon it does.”

*

Victoire is beautiful. Even though she’s still growing, and has acne on her chin that she hides with magic, and split ends that enrage her on the daily, and all of those things seem to make her think otherwise, she’s still very beautiful. Teddy knows this because she tells him so every five minutes (despite thinking otherwise often) and because boys and girls fall at her feet wherever they walk, and because he has eyeballs in his head that work perfectly fine.

“Well you never look at anyone with them,” Victoire says, rolling her shoulders as she bends to pick up the Quaffle. They sneak out every Friday, close to when evening falls, to grab one from the Quidditch cupboard and throw it around near the treeline of the Forbidden Forest for a bit. Birds caw in the trees, squabbling specks amongst the crowds of leaves. 

“I look at loads of people.” Teddy frowns, catching the ball easily when Victoire throws it at him. “We go to a school that’s also a huge castle.” He waggles his eyebrows. “People are everywhere. It’s hard not to look at them. Look, see, I’m looking at you right now.”

Victoire blows a raspberry at him. “No. You look at people like they’re projects sometimes, or like they’re the riddle to get you into Ravenclaw Tower. And you look at people normally, you know, how most people do. But you don't stare the way most boys do. You don't goggle.”

Teddy tosses the ball back, watching it soar towards her. “Goggle?”

Victoire catches it, nodding firmly. “Goggle.” She lets her mouth hang open, her eyes half-crossing as they glaze over. “Like that. Like the way Ron looks at a honey-roast ham.”

Teddy’s still chortling from the face she pulled, but the comment makes him crack up again. He misses the Quaffle when she chucks it his way, and she sighs, dropping down on the ground and waiting for him to join her. Apparently the game is over, Teddy thinks, watching her settle down fondly. She has the sun on her neck, and the breeze in her long blonde hair, and she rests her head on his shoulder when he crosses his legs under him beside her. 

“It’s funny. I’m glad you’re not a pig, but of all the people in this place, you’re the only one I wouldn’t mind looking at me like that.”

Victoire’s always blatant and confident with her words. These ones are wistful. Teddy feels a sharp ache in his stomach and half-twists to try and look at her. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I don't—I don't know why.”

It feels like the words get stuck on the way out of his mouth. They catch on his teeth and his sandpaper tongue, and they fall into the air, shredded and painful. Victoire gathers them up in her sensible way, sitting up to look at him. 

“You don't know why you don't ogle people like they’re pieces of meat?” Victoire says, cocking one eyebrow. “You don't know why I’m glad you’re not a pig?”

Teddy shakes his head. He’s not actually sorry, but he feels as though he should be. He likes the yellow of the sun where it meets Victoire’s hair, so he turns his own hair a soft daffodil hue. She clicks her tongue, reaching up to card a hand through it.

“Don't change, Teddy. Not for other people.”

Teddy likes the way she says it. He puts his hand in his pocket and produces a small square of paper. He keeps three-point folds and valley creases about his person all the time, much smaller than they need to be. 

It only takes a bit of thought, holding the paper in his hand, for it to grow to the size he needs and split in half. Victoire watches, captivated, her sharp eyes following the movements of his fingers as he folds each square and creases the paper delicately, until he has a stem and a flower, both pressed flat and no bigger than his hand when put together. The flower, he touches to his hair, just gently, until the white paper dyes itself yellow. The stem rests on the grass until it deepens to green. 

“I won’t change if you don't tell,” Teddy says. 

Then he breathes the two together and gifts Victoire with a paper daffodil that will never wilts; the petals open up in her hands.

*

Teddy stops worrying so much as he works his way through Hogwarts. He folds shapes out of paper in class and throws them at his mates, grinning. Sam keeps a paper blue brachiosaurus by his bed at all times, gifted to him by Teddy when he first learned about the Muggle branch of paleontology. He gives girls paper flows all the time, although never a daffodil, and tries only once to bribe McGonagall with a paper tabby cat. The bribe doesn’t work, and Teddy still gets a detention for sneaking into the kitchen after hours, but McGonagall keeps the cat on her desk. Teddy spots it washing its crinkly paw with a flat, sandpaper tongue one morning and can’t stop grinning for the rest of the day.

He’s famous for being the nicest Hufflepuff to ever grace the halls. He’s weirdly popular, considering he never dates anyone. 

The summer before his last year, Teddy spends it at the Potter’s house, soaking up the sun in the garden. He avoids paper in case anyone catches him folding it—it’s still a secret at home, sort of—and takes James fishing in the afternoons. 

His favourite thing about James is that he never shuts up, never slows down his words, and yet they all seem equally as important as the last. He says things with such emotion packed into the words that it’s hard not to get swept along with the story, even when the story is just James enthusing about salt and vinegar crisps or babbling, star-struck, about how Krum came to visit Fleur last summer and ruffled James’s hair _with his snitch-catching hands._

Fishing generally requires a quiet atmosphere, but it’s one of the only things that Teddy does that nobody else wants to join in with, so it’s really the only time he gets to spend alone with James. He’s sixteen to James’s ten. They’re not particularly close, but there’s something fascinating about James’s enthusiasm for life, and he’s cheeky and funny, bright and kind. Teddy never used to take much interest in people, but now he finds that they can be just as intriguing as dragons and frogs and mud. Just maybe not in the way everyone else explained they would be. 

“What’s it really like?” James asks, upside down on the grassy bank, shoes kicked off and bare toes wiggling in the sun. “Hogwarts, I mean. Dad says it’s loads of fun, and the safest place in the world like that’s the most important part, even though I’m not in danger, y’know?” 

Teddy tries to arrange his expression into something that might encompass his feelings for all his years at Hogwarts so far. It falls short, but James laughs anyway. 

“It’s still a school,” Teddy says, adjusting his grip on the fishing rod slightly. “The classes are brilliant, but you still have to do homework. And Quidditch is fun too.” 

“You’d think with all the reading you do that you’d be better at this,” James comments, rolling over onto his stomach, where he props his chin on his hands. “Come on, Teddy. Where’s the emotion? The description? The adventure, the magic! You have to make me believe it.”

“We’re not all giant show-offs.”

“Oi!”

James scrambles up indignantly, but he’s grinning far too proudly for it to be a believable protest. James knows exactly what he’s like and who he is, even at ten. It would be annoying, but it’s basically impossible to be annoyed at James. Instead, Teddy finds it endearing. 

“It’s either be a nerd or a show-off, and I like my label better than yours, _nerd.”_ James plucks a handful of grass out of the ground and throws it at Teddy. “C’mon, Teddy, I want to know about Hogwarts.”

“You’re going to be there next year!”

James scrunches his nose up, shredding a blade of grass. “Yeah, exactly. That’s ages away. Show me some magic or something!”

“I’m not of age yet,” Teddy says, shaking his head with a grin, but even as he says it, he’s thinking of all the things he could do. Because he has done magic before now, at home, and it wasn’t accidental. It was quite purposeful, in fact. 

He fashioned a lightbulb out of paper when the lamp at Gran’s stopped working. It still glows even now, when the bulb is twisted half a centimeter to the left. There’s a paper plant in the windowsill of Harry’s study, a gift to the only person in his family barring Victoire that knows Teddy can do strange and wonderful things with paper. Harry told him it had grown three new pink paper buds in the past week alone.

James expels a dramatic sigh, flopping face-first into the grass. “Can’t even put your nerdiness to good use.”

Teddy straightens up, narrowing his eyes at James’s sprawled form. That does it. He’s not about to be showed up by a bratty ten-year old. 

The river he’s fishing in is cool, a steady stream that runs through banks of dandelion-infested grass. Teddy shifts on the rock he claimed when they arrived, and props the fishing rod up between his knees. He hasn’t caught anything the whole time they’ve been here, too busy laughing at James to pay much attention to the water. 

In his pockets, he finds a handful of mountain folds. He dips the pieces of folded paper in the water until they turns blue and soggy. Then he raises the mangled mess up into the air and feels it dry in his hands, smoothing out into a rectangular sheet of river blue. He doesn’t have to speak to suck the moisture out of the paper; it listens to the hope in his hand.

James isn’t paying attention anymore, rolled over onto his back to stare at the clouds, mumbling something to himself. 

“Sardines or butterfly fish?” 

James cranes his neck to look at Teddy oddly. When he spots the paper, he spins around and shuffles closer, crawling forward to sit near him. 

“Butterfly fish.” 

“Try again.” Teddy grins fleetingly. “I can’t do Butterfly fish yet.” 

James snickers into his palm, then says, “Sardines taste better anyway.”

Teddy snorts softly, and begins to fold. James prods him insistently in the leg with his finger, poking him with questions too. A sardine takes shape in Teddy’s hands. It’s harder without a flat surface to fold against, but it works well enough against the rough surface of the rock. Nothing snags or rips, at least. 

“What are you _doing?”_ James complains, shifting restlessly, eyes glued to Teddy’s hands. 

Teddy reels in his empty line and hooks the finished sardine onto the end of the fishing rod. It’s a narrow line of flat, blue paper, shaped perfectly like a fish. It even has glints of silver, like scales that flash in the light. 

“You know, if you were that bad at fishing, you could have just said so Teddy.” James grins up at him. “We could have played Quidditch or something, even though you suck at that too.”

“I do not suck,” Teddy says, shoving him lightly with one hand. “Just watch.”

The line disappears beneath the water, submerging the paper sardine.

*

“How did you know you liked Ginny?”

They’re whisking eggs. Teddy’s spilled bits of jagged eggshell into the mixing bowl twice, and Harry’s made the same joke about going ‘cracked’ in his old age twice too. Teddy wonders when it starts: he’s only seventeen, but he can’t imagine Harry being any less cracked at Teddy’s age than he is now. 

Harry runs a finger down the recipe, written in a book that he probably knows off by heart. He’s got flour everywhere, all over his jeans and his threadbare jumper. Harry always says he doesn’t mind having threadbare clothes now, since he knows it’s because he’s loved his clothes enough to wear them thin, and not because someone didn't love him enough to make sure he was warm when they had the means to. It makes anger pulse through Teddy, followed swiftly by a soft ache. 

Harry pauses in the egg-whisking process to throw a smile his way. 

“Oh, are we doing that, are we?” Harry pats the whisk on the side of the bowl so the excess mixture dribbles in. “I think maybe when we were hunting for Horcruxes. She didn't come with us, even though I know she would have given the chance. I used to watch the Marauder’s Map for ages, just following her name around Hogwarts. It was how I knew she was safe, which was all I wanted. And when I knew that, I knew I loved her, I think.”

Teddy puts down the carton of empty eggs before he can get more than a step towards the bin. He pokes at one of the eggs, disgruntled. Their shells look abandoned, like miserable little pockets for stolen goods. 

“That’s not what I meant, but it’s nice.” Teddy pauses, then adds, “In a slightly sad way.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn't hear that bit. What did you mean?”

Teddy hums under his breath, not answering. He picks up the carton again to take the eggshells to the compost, but Harry reaches over and tugs gently on his wrist until he puts it down. Harry’s face crinkles up in concern, dark hair falling over his forehead 

“You don't usually have trouble talking to me. Is everything alright?”

“It’s not a big deal,” Teddy says abruptly, tense with the need to get the words out, even if they don't make sense, even if they sound stupid. “But I meant how did you know you liked Ginny, not how did you know you loved her?”

Harry’s still as sharp as he ever was, which means Teddy only has to wait a few agonising seconds before Harry gets it. 

“You mean, before we dated?”

Teddy shrugs, nodding. He feels small and skinny and young again. He feels blue-haired and like there are swear words on his tongue that he’s not allowed to say. 

“Yeah. Before everything, before all of it.”

Harry watches him for a few long seconds, and then carefully resumes whisking the eggs. 

“It’s not something you always know straight away, but I figured it out after a while. She made me laugh a lot. She always smelled like flowers. She was fierce and strong, and she didn't take anything lying down. I think when I realised I looked at her more than anyone else, and that I wanted to be around her all the time… I think that’s when I realised I liked her.”

“Not because she was pretty?”

Harry puts the whisk down again, flashing him a small grin. “That too. But lots of people look good, and I didn't date them.”

Teddy nods. The whisk gets put back to work while the eggshells are dumped in the compost. 

“Don't throw away the carton,” Harry calls. “I promised Hugo I’d re-use them, so I bought cress seeds.”

“He’s really on an environment kick, isn’t he?”

“There are worse things to be obsessed with changing,” Harry says, and Teddy can tell he’s thinking of SPEW, and how badly it went. It’s a collection of stories that Ron likes to tell at dinner, or at a barbeque, getting progressively louder until Hermione hits him on the arm and says a few sharp things. 

“True. I want to do the buttercream.”

“You want to _eat_ the buttercream.”

Teddy flicks a tuft of flour at Harry along the sideboard. It explodes softly. Sadly, the minor eruption doesn’t distract from the fact that Harry is right. Teddy has a bit of a sweet tooth. 

“Did someone catch your eye, then?”

Teddy looks up, but Harry is still whisking. As though Teddy isn’t there to hear the idle question, casually masking a deep curiosity. 

“Since you’re asking about liking people,” Harry adds. “I thought maybe someone had caught your eye.”

“No,” Teddy replies slowly. That’s sort of the problem. 

God, even in his own head, none of it makes much sense. Teddy makes a grab for the words but they elude him, dancing mockingly out of reach. The thing is, none of it feels bad to him. What he feels, or more accurately what he _doesn’t_ feel, doesn’t feel wrong. 

But he can tell by the way that other people react to what he says, and the way they respond carefully to his comments, or wait patiently for him to speak when he doesn’t realise he should be speaking—he can tell he’s doing something wrong. 

He doesn’t ‘goggle’ as Victoire once put it. He doesn’t look at girls or guys, not unless they’re doing something particularly interesting or stupid. He likes the idea of romance, but the thought of sex just makes him frown. He doesn’t feel the same things that everyone in his year seems to be feeling. 

Danny was upset but kind when Teddy turned him down last year, baffled at the request to go on a date, but still gentle. He’s had a few lackluster kisses during party games that felt more awkward than anything, and endured a thousand conversations with his mates that felt as though they should be private, if nothing else, where he contributed roughly nothing. 

Buggy called him a prude. So did Jessie from Ravenclaw, when Teddy shrugged off her advances in Hogsmeade. 

Teddy doesn’t feel like a prude. He just doesn’t feel… interested. 

“No, nobody caught my eye,” Teddy says, louder than he needs to. He sweeps up the flour he just propelled forward and dumps that in the bin, desperate for something to do. 

Harry’s voice, when he spins Teddy around with a firm hand on his shoulder and smiles at him knowingly, is soft. 

“You just let me know if they ever do, okay?” 

Teddy breathes in and out, as steady as he knows how. In his head, he concocts shapes out of paper, cutting into the corners here and there. There will be a flurry of paper snowflakes on his bed when he gets home. 

“Good.” Harry hands him the icing sugar and points at the fridge. “Get the butter, and start on the buttercream. Just try to keep your face out of the bowl.”

*

Teddy fucks up being an adult within the very first month of turning twenty-three.

Technically, you’re supposed to count yourself as an adult at seventeen in the wizarding world, but he disagrees with that notion. Like he had a _clue_ what to do with his life at seventeen, let alone the skills or knowledge to go ahead and do it. 

James expressed something similar when he sent a letter to Teddy the other week, bemoaning the fact that he was supposed to suddenly know how to do things now, like cook or wash his own clothes. He’s light-years ahead of Teddy when he was that age, considering James already has a Reserve position lined up with the Appleby Arrows, and an interview for a job with a sports reporter. Teddy just had a backpack full of clothes and a Portkey to wherever Victoire wanted to go first. 

“This was a stupid fucking idea,” Teddy says, heaving boxes in and out of the backroom, where he’s decided to store everything he doesn’t know what to do with yet. That turns out to be literally everything he owns. 

Victoire huffs, waving her wand importantly and sending books and boxes flying. “You’ve never been known for having ideas that weren’t, on some level, a bit stupid. I don't know how you fooled people into thinking you’re a nice, normal, level-headed person.”

“Could you not do that?” Teddy has to duck to avoid the textbooks zooming like bullets towards him; he knows it’ll all end up in neat piles, precisely where it should be, but for now it’s just airborne chaos. 

“Oh, I could.” Victoire grins at him impishly. The books and boxes keep flying. 

Later, when the shopfront is empty, the wooden floors gleaming with fresh lacquer, and the windows scrubbed to a shine, Victoire loops her arm through Teddy’s and leans her cheek against his shoulder. 

“Tell me why it’s stupid.”

It’s not stupid, but it is risky. It’s risky because it means something to Teddy. Paper, however stupid it sounds, has always been his escape. He folds to quiet his mind, bringing things to life because it feels natural. The Wizarding World already has some forms of magic relating to parchment, like the memos used in the Ministry of Magic, and the notes passed back and forth in Hogwarts classes. But he doesn’t think anybody else has a shop full of paper flowers ready to be sold and planted in real earth. He doesn’t think anybody else has an upstairs flat full of helpful paper birds and paper music boxes that sing his favourite songs, nor the ability to bring it all to life. 

“S’posed to be an Auror, or something,” Teddy says, shrugging, because it feels easier than admitting what he’s truly afraid of; that he’ll open the doors, sell a few paper charms, and watch the thing he loves fade into non-existence, disparaged. He doesn’t want this to turn into another thing about him that people find weird.

“You don't actually believe that.” Victoire pokes him in the stomach. “Harry would set himself on fire if he thought you were saying things like that. And your Gran would set _you_ on fire until you started speaking sensibly.”

Teddy snorts. He untangles himself from Victoire’s sideways embrace and paces the length of the shopfront slowly, taking in the shelves ready to be filled, the clouds painted on the ceiling and the paper candles already flickering in place. They give out light, but no heat, not yet.

He tried to be an Auror, for a while. After he and Victoire got back from travelling the world, dipping in and out of Africa and Thailand and France, he enrolled in Auror Training. He stuck at it for a full year, training under rough, hardened men and women with sharp eyes and even sharper instincts. It wasn’t that he was bad at it. It was that he didn't really want to do it. Finally, he was taken aside and told to make a choice. 

“Your heart’s not in it, Lupin,” Roberts had said. “More importantly, neither is your head. If you’re distracted twenty-four-seven by not wanting to be an Auror, you’re not going to be a very good one, are you?”

Teddy had taken the day off, and then made several Floo calls to determine that he wouldn’t be coming back in, but _thanks very much anyway for all the yelling and morning drills and spell damage._

“You’ve floated back and forth between what you want to do for years now,” Victoire says, braiding her hair absently while he stares at the empty walls. “Nobody minds how long it takes you. You’re not supposed to have everything together. I don't think there’s ever a limit on how long it takes you to find something you want to do. Christ, I don't know what I want to do, and you don't think less of me, do you?”

Teddy startles, turning on his heel. “No! Of course not.” He hesitates, and then shrugs. “But it’s not that people will think less of me.”

“Good, because they won’t. Everyone just wants you to stop being a big moping bugger and start being happy.” 

Teddy flips her off. Victoire beams proudly—and, well, Teddy figures she’s got the right, considering she’s the one that taught him every curse word and rude gesture in the book. 

“Thanks, Vic. You’ve got such a way with words. Makes me all warm and gooey inside.” 

“Yes, well. It comes naturally. Look, do you even know what’s bothering you about doing this?”

She’s grinning knowingly. Teddy sort of hates that smile, but he doesn’t do anything more than glare her way. 

“Emotions are confusing, Vic.”

“You’re a miniature version of Ronald,” Victoire says crisply. She knows that Ron doesn’t like his full name, and she uses it all the time just to irritate him, ever since he accidentally spat out the homemade goulash she brought to Christmas dinner one year. 

“I’m taller than Ron.”

“You’re only taller than him because you cheat.”

“I can be taller than anyone.”

“You’re a secret short-arse.”

Teddy pointedly grows three more inches. Vic sends a forgotten box flying his way, but not even a knock to the nose can dampen his grin. 

Teddy looks once more around the store, Victoire ranting beside him, and thinks, okay. Maybe it’s a risk. But maybe it’s not such a stupid idea after all.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Link text](https://twitter.com/)


	2. James

A faint tinkling sound escapes the wind-chimes hung above the door. They spin in frantic circles, herded around by the gust of wind that blows James into the store. But despite the restless movements of the chimes, the sound is a quaint thing, like pins raining down on a tin roof, a full street away. 

James reaches up to poke each silver spiral, stretching until he feels smooth paper beneath his fingers. _Paper._ Paper fashioned into hollow tubes that look like metal, paper given the ghost of a chime. It’s a marvel, not just that he’s tall enough now to reach things like this, because he used to be annoyingly short and quite peeved about it, but also that things like this exist at all. 

“Manhandling my stock, Jamie?”

James doesn’t startle, but he does straighten up, dropping his hand and letting the door swing shut behind him. It shuts with a soft snick. The chimes grow slow, still warbling distantly. James ducks around a customer dithering near a stack of envelopes and strides towards the counter, where Teddy is smiling at him. 

That smile almost stops him in his tracks. He hasn’t seen Teddy properly in a while, busy with his last few years at Hogwarts and then with Quidditch training. They’ve exchanged letters, postcards, goofy gifts and funny extracts from the newspaper. They've seen each other at family get-togethers, but it’s not the same as fishing together or play-fighting in the grass or sneaking bits of dessert off Grandma’s table before dinner was ready. 

Every moment they’ve ever spent together, James has felt a fierce closeness towards Teddy. But then Teddy would rush off to his next appointment in adulthood, and they both had to deal with just letters and trinkets to tide them over. Little pieces that never quite satisfied the urge in James to spend more time together. 

“Just checking the quality before I buy,” James says, snatching up the first nonsensical statement within reach. “You’re in the seedy part of Diagon Alley, you know.” He winks, drawing even closer. “Can never be too careful.”

There’s a cake shop not too far from here, and the rest of the curved street is a conglomeration of antique stores, bookshops and estate agencies, all in rustic shades of bronze and yellow, with greenery blossoming in the window boxes. The only seedy thing about it is the clump of sea-blue bird feeders in the patch of grass near the bakery. 

But James has never been quite as on top of his game as he’d like around Teddy, never quite as articulate with his words, and it’s apparently only worsened over the years. 

Teddy smiles at him softly, freckles appearing on his cheekbones like stars fading into a night sky. The sight of it makes James swallow. Teddy can’t know that he always does that, that he lets his skin mimic James’s whenever he’s around. If he did, he’d surely stop it from happening. 

“Quite right,” Teddy says, climbing off his stool and rounding the counter to pull James into a hug. “Wouldn’t expect anything else from someone who had to live with Harry and his over-alert arse for years.”

It’s warm in Teddy’s arms. James feels as though he’s sunk into safety. Which is stupid, really, because he wasn’t _unsafe_ before. He didn't duck into Teddy’s store after being chased, barefoot, over a bed of hot coals by a horde of Dementors. He’s not in any danger. 

James inhales that familiar bookish scent. “Please don't talk about my dad’s arse when you’re holding me.”

Teddy’s laugh rumbled through him, setting his nerves alight. He glances down at James, pulling back just far enough that their eyes can meet. James can see the way Teddy’s smile widens, his lips changing shape as he metamorphs unknowingly, making his smile fuller and brighter. 

“You drive a hard bargain, Jamie, but I’ll do my best.”

Perhaps James spoke too soon. Might be in a bit of danger _now._

“Excuse me, is this the queue?” 

Teddy jerks backwards suddenly, then disentangles himself from James to pop back around the counter with an apologetic expression. The woman who asked has three green birds in her hand and a problem with her foot, apparently, if the way she’s tapping it indicates anything. 

“Sorry,” James says, stepping aside with a roguish grin. “Mr Lupin’s not available for any more hugs today, but I’m happy to open up my own line just for you.”

He spreads his arms wide and raises his eyebrows while Teddy splutters, caught between protest and laughter. The woman’s foot miraculously recovers. She eyes James furtively, her mouth quirking up at the corners, and then rolls her eyes as she places her birds delicately on the counter. 

“Sorry about that ma’am,” Teddy says, finding his voice as he fumbles around with a silk pouch. “And sorry about him, too.”

James mimes being stabbed behind her, clutching his wounded chest and making desperately anguished expressions. Teddy surreptitiously flips him off while the woman digs about in her purse. 

“It’s not a problem,” the woman says, dropping a handful of Knuts onto the counter with a clatter. “Sometimes you just can’t get good staff.”

“Oh, he’s not—”

James interrupts, stating, “I’m an excellent assistant, thank you very much.” 

The woman laughs lightly, and then taps her fingers against the counter. “Then you won’t mind telling me how to operate these lovely creatures.”

The birds lie still beside her curious hand. James drifts closer despite himself, drawn in by the perfectly shaped wings, the fat crest of their chests and the stubby, sharp point of each beak. It’s remarkably lifelike, considering it’s just paper. 

“I think I might let the expert explain,” James says, eyes darting up to catch Teddy’s gaze. He’s been watching James. He smiles and picks up the first bird with infinite care, holding it gently, the way one would an injured creature, or something newborn and fragile as a shell. 

“Probably for the best.” Teddy focuses on the woman now, lifting the bird up to show her the creases in the wing. “This is a sparrow. A house sparrow, to be more specific. You picked the young ones on purpose, ma’am?”

“I have a daughter that’s terrified of insects, and a house that lets a lot of insects in regardless of my spells.”

“Then these are perfect.” Teddy grins, laying the bird flat on his palm. He catches James’s curious look and explains, “Sparrows mostly eat seeds, but when they’re younger they can’t get the moisture they need from dry seeds, so they eat a lot of insects too.”

James raises an eyebrow, impressed. “So does that mean you do a spell and your paper bird will eat any insects that come crawling into this lovely lady’s house?” 

He throws a wink at said lovely lady. She looks more amused than anything. 

“Not quite,” Teddy says, something odd and confused in his tone, despite the confidence in his words. “It repels insects, instead. It’s paper, so it doesn’t need to eat or drink. But real sparrows have a connection with insects, and so I replicated that connection within the paper sparrow.” He hesitates, frowning. “I’m not sure how to explain it, but it’s mostly empathetic magic. You don’t want the insects there, and I expect your daughter has strong feelings about them too. If you bring the birds to life and keep them in your home, or even your garden, you should find all the insects won’t come within twenty feet of your house. They definitely won’t come inside.”

“Perfect.” The woman pushes the Knuts closer over the counter while Teddy demonstrates how to activate the sparrow. 

“I won’t do it here, but it’s simple enough. No words or wand movements. Just focus on the intent of the spell, and then, see here?”

He points at one of the wings, where James can see a small slit beneath the angled feathers. The woman nods, leaning forward to peer intently at the gap. 

“Just breathe into it. The sparrow should take care of the rest. If you want to stop the spell at any point, you can call it back with a spell or a verbal command, and then unfold it. The magic will break once the construct breaks down.” 

“Fantastic,” James says, without thinking. 

Teddy flushes a deep red, but he looks proud. He takes the coins and slips three birds into the silk bag before waving the woman off. The minute the door closes with a near-silent chime, James throws himself around the counter and stares at Teddy incredulously. There are other customers around, but James pays them no mind. They really will have to form a queue behind him this time. 

Teddy scrunches up his face, looking wary. “I feel like you have questions.”

“It’s like we’ve met before.”

Teddy sighs, but it’s so full of affection that James can almost taste it. He’s the only person that James can ever remember encouraging his endless babbling, rather than tolerating it. James has a tendency to talk and talk until he runs out of air, but he’s not oblivious to the fact that it irritates the hell out of people. Like Albus. And his parents, and the rest of his family, and his friends, and everyone he’s ever met. Except Teddy. 

It's not like knowing stops him from talking. Sometimes it actively encourages him to keep going, getting louder with every word. 

But it's oddly nice, that Teddy doesn’t seem to mind the noise that James brings to his life. 

“I close up shop in a couple of hours,” Teddy says, glancing down at his watch. “You can come up to my flat afterwards and I’ll answer your questions if you like. I’ll even show you my new frogs.”

There’s a look on his face, wry and resigned, as though he’s prepared for James to laugh, expects it, is okay with it. And James does laugh, but not just because it’s a ridiculous statement. He laughs because there’s very little magic in the world left untouched by witches and wizards, but Teddy has found a corner that nobody’s tampered with, and he’s sequestered himself neatly inside it. He’s made it even more magical than it was when he found it. He's done it in his own way. 

James laughs because Teddy is a marvel. He hopes Teddy can hear the warm truth in his voice when he says, “Nothing else I’d rather be doing.”

*

It’s not just Teddy that’s a marvel. His flat, a collection of tiny rooms just above the shop, is a vibrant mass of activity and wonder.

Birds sit in nests that dangle from the ceiling on thin bits of wire. Something hoots from another room. Miniature train tracks and grey roads intertwine over the shining floorboards. James crouches down to watch a car zoom towards him, the wheels turning soundlessly. Ivy crawls up the walls in varying shades of vibrant green. 

All of it, every inch, is made of paper. 

“Do you like it?” Teddy asks, shutting the door and standing beside James for a moment, taking in each pocket of joy with a small, content smile. Teddy always exudes a quiet sort of confidence, even though James knows he hides a thousand anxieties in his chest. They peek through despite his best efforts sometimes. Here, it seems as though those anxieties slip away entirely. 

“Like it?” James feels the way he did when he first stepped into Honeydukes, three sickles in his pocket, ready to gorge himself on sugar until he popped in a flurry of sherbet. He stays where he is for a minute while Teddy undoes his apron, and his mouth spreads into a wide unstoppable grin. 

“It’s _brilliant.”_ At the words, Teddy relaxes, his hair tinged with the dusky pink of relief. 

“Why haven’t I been here before? Ow! Jesus, your furniture is handsy.” James sidesteps the undulating handles of the cloak stand, reaching impatiently for his jacket. “Alright, alright! You could take me to dinner first, you know.” James sheds his jacket, holding it out. “I’m not that easy.”

The jacket is snatched up greedily by the cloak stand, but the noise of shuffling leather doesn’t quite cover Teddy coughing into his fist. James swings around to raise an eyebrow at him, a question gone unasked on his face. He keeps looking until Teddy grows twitchy. 

“What?” Teddy finally asks, as though he didn’t just do the oldest trick in the book; a dubious, disbelieving cough, popular with dad’s and obnoxious theatre kids all over the world. 

James mimics his cough exaggeratedly, practically hacking into his hand. “What was _that_ supposed to mean?”

Teddy sets about hanging up his apron, face studiously blank. “Nothing.”

“Didn't sound like nothing. Sounded disbelieving, if you ask me. Downright hurtful, that is.”

Teddy shrugs, mouth jumping up at the corners. “I may have heard some things.”

“If you talked to Rose…” James begins, narrowing his eyes. Teddy nods reluctantly, and James groans, throwing his head back. “Then I’ll have you know that she’s a goddamn nosy liar.”

“So you haven’t slept with half of your own Quidditch team?” Teddy sounds as though the answer won’t bother him in the slightest. James takes a moment to pout at the lack of interest, before following Teddy’s light footsteps. He leads James into the kitchen, where James has to stop again to take in the musical movements of paper appliances. 

“Is that a paper apple slicer, cutting up a paper apple?” James widens his eyes at the counter-top, listening to the shuck of a paper blade. 

Teddy pauses in the act of bringing the kettle over to the hob. “Yeah. Don't ask why, I just got bored one day.”

“Can you eat it?”

Teddy shakes his head. “Food is harder to fold, for some reason, so I haven’t practised as much as I need to. Once I’ve got the shapes down, I can start to work out which connections they have with the organic world, and how I can use magic to shape that into something useful. I don't think you’ll ever be able to eat paper food, but so far, you can use those apple slices as an air freshener if you want.”

James isn’t even going to pretend to know what half of that meant. He’s smart, but Teddy’s in a whole other world, especially when it comes to this stuff. Instead, James says, “So... you could have a mushroom air freshener, if you wanted. Or a bourbon biscuit. Or sprouts.”

Teddy snorts, filling up the kettle with a wave of his hand. “Only you, Jamie. Only you’d want a sprout air freshener.”

James tries very hard not to focus on how hot Teddy is, doing wandless magic like it’s nothing.

“I didn't say I wanted one. Although I definitely do. Albus hates sprouts, and I bet if we make it small enough, I could hide it somewhere and he’d have no idea why his house was stinking or what to do about it.”

He moves closer while Teddy chuckles. Picking up one of the half-moon slices carefully, James weighs it in his hand. It’s heavier than he imagined. It doesn’t feel like fruit, but it doesn’t feel quite like paper either. It does smell strongly of apple, though, far stronger than real apples smell. 

“You know, you never answered my question.”

James puts the apple slice down, angling his head to look up at Teddy in surprise. “The sex question?”

Teddy summons the mugs; they arrive rather haphazardly, clunking down onto the counter while the sugar pot frantically unscrews its lid. James resists the urge to fan his face like a fainting maiden at the display of wandless magic, again. 

“Yes.” Teddy clears his throat; he looks amused at his own awkwardness, not quite meeting James’s eyes. “The sex question.” 

“Just people exaggerating.” James waves a hand, swinging himself up onto the counter. “I’ve been on a couple of dates since Hogwarts, and that’s it. I think it’s all the flirting that gets people confused.”

Teddy mutters something under his breath, shaking his head like he doesn’t know precisely what to feel. 

“And I’ve only had sex with like, one guy,” James adds. He’s never been one for propriety, and Teddy asked. He literally asked for this. James tries not to hope more than he should. He knows Teddy’s not really interested in his stuff and never has been, really. He wasn’t the only one confused when Teddy came home every summer with no girlfriend, no boyfriend, not even a whisper of one on the horizon. And it’s been years since Hogwarts was Teddy’s home, but there’s still no whisper. 

A mug of tea slides along the counter towards James, weaving in and out of the paper slicer’s jagged movements. It doesn’t seem like the conversation’s going to continue, so James picks the mug up and sips it. It doesn’t burn his tongue; Teddy always puts too much milk in his tea. 

“So why paper?”

Teddy pauses, spoon halfway to the sink. “Hmm?”

“Oh, you’re avoiding that question, so it must be a good one.” James grins at him over his mug. “C’mon, Teddy. You said you’d answer all my questions. I even swept the shop for you.”

“I think you damaged the floor in at least four places,” Teddy counters, looking vaguely impressed as he remembers the sheer volume of chaos James can inflict with a broom. “Nobody’s ever made cleaning look so aggressive before.”

James knows deflection when he sees it, but he decides to let Teddy have this one. “Have you met Grandma?”

“Huh. Point taken.”

James finds himself laughing brightly at Teddy’s expression, always an open book despite how much everyone says he’s closed off. James doesn’t know how they can say that, not when his eyes are that vibrant and his hair is ever-changing, and his nose shrinks when he’s disgusted with something. Teddy isn’t closed off; he’s ajar, if anything. You just have to look through the gaps.

*

James starts dropping by Teddy’s shop more often. It starts with once a week, then escalates quickly, until he’s there more often than he’s not. He sweeps the floor with less aggression, taking more care in his movements. He coaxes birds into synchronised flight for delighted customers, murmuring until they spread their wings and swoop above mesmerised heads; Teddy keeps a few of each charm in the backroom for demonstrations now, so that his stock isn’t decimated every time James pops by.

James chats to everyone that comes through the doors. He dances with shy kids when the paper music boxes play their favourite song. He wields a stick of Gobbard’s Good-As-New Glue with fervour whenever a paper flower crumples under far too eager hands. 

Teddy watches it all from his position behind the counter, sometimes calling out for him to slow down, sometimes laughing brightly in encouragement. 

For approximately eight seconds, James worries that Teddy’s going to get tired of him, or that he’s being irritating, pushing himself into a space that he was never supposed to occupy. And then reminds himself that Teddy is an adult with no qualms over telling people to bugger off if he needs to. Also, James is delightful, so naturally Teddy wants to spend time with him.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Teddy says, teasing, when James tells him so. “None of my frogs like you.”

“Right, because frogs are known for their impeccable judgement of character.”

Teddy taps his elbows until James reluctantly removes them from where they’ve been digging into a pile of periwinkle paper. “Stop lolling about on the counter. You’d think you would be better at this assistant thing by now.”

“Wages usually increase performance, you know.”

Teddy laughs. He takes a sheet of paper from the top of the pile and begins to fold it. A few customers stop and linger, watching him at work, and James has to bite down on the urge to shoo the away. He has a feeling this is for him, but that doesn’t mean he’s entitled to all of Teddy. Even though he dearly wants to hoard everything Teddy makes, like a jealous dragon guarding priceless treasures. 

“Here,” Teddy says, after a minute of careful creasing. He holds up a smaller version of the apron around his waist, complete with straight ties sticking directly out to the side. He frowns a moment, then puts the paper apron down and doodles on it with a bit of ink, until it says _L.P.P_ on the bottom in dark blue. 

“Now you’re an official member of the staff,” Teddy says, snatching up one of James’s hands and placing the apron in it. His touch is warm and purposeful, folding James’s fingers over the apron. He grins. “Say thank you.”

James glances down at his hand, enveloped in Teddy’s, and swallows, something sparking far down inside him. “Thank you?”

The apron abruptly shifts and grows. The paper softens—not turning to fabric, but loosening somehow, sturdier and more flexible than before—and Teddy removes his hand in time to leave James with a full-sized apron. 

A few people clap nearby. James jolts, then grins charmingly at them, as though this was a planned show. 

“Thanks very much, adoring audience. We’ll be here all week!”

They laugh and disperse after a moment, distracted by the paper train tooting along the tracks on the opposite side of the store. James turns back to his apron, not quite sure what to make of it. 

“I know it’s not a wage,” Teddy says softly, beautiful, clever hands hidden away in his pockets. “And I know you have a job already, and that this is for fun, mostly. But I want you to know I appreciate you being here. You’re always welcome here, Jamie.”

“Christ, Teddy, warn me before you start giving out beautiful speeches.” James makes a big deal of pretending to wipe tears from his eyes, but he’s genuinely touched at the thought. “Thanks, though. I mean, I wouldn’t have stopped bothering you anyway, but it’s nice to know you’re not just putting up with me.” James winks. “Just don't listen to the frogs, yeah?”

“Sounds about right. They're biased, and seem to hate you, but I only agree when you break something important. Need help with that?”

James wraps the apron around his waist and then turns, holding out the strings for Teddy. He feels Teddy step closer and focuses on the paper bumblebees drifting lazily around their hive near the window, holding his breath. He doesn’t know why, but all the smallest, softest moments with Teddy feel monumental. Every touch sets him on fire. 

Teddy’s breath grazes the base of his neck as he ties the strings carefully, looping them through one another. James shivers, goose-flesh dimpling to life on his arms. 

“There you go,” Teddy murmurs, stepping back as soon as he's done. James tries not to feel deflated, or resigned, as he turns and grins at Teddy, spreading his arms. 

“How do I look? If the answer isn’t handsome as fuck, I don't want to hear it until you’ve gotten new glasses.”

If his smile is weaker than usual, Teddy doesn’t say anything about it. But then again, he might not notice. 

That’s the thing about the small, soft moments with Teddy that feel monumental. They never last that long, and James is sure that he’s the only one that feels as though he’s burning up at the barest touch.

*

James is used to getting up at the crack of dawn for Quidditch practice. When he got his Quidditch Captain badge, he spent an entire afternoon picking the most irritating song to play at five o’clock in the morning when his mates refused to budge from their beds. Now that he’s the Reserve Chaser for the Appleby Arrows, he gets up early regardless of whether there’s a practice booked or not, and makes his way to the pitch for at least an hour of flying.

But Sunday is a sacred day. Those are the days he spends curled in a ball at the bottom of his bed, with the covers practically strangling him, sleeping through the morning with absolutely no intention of getting up for anything less than an asteroid headed for his flat. Even then, there’s a fifty-fifty chance that he might just let it crash into him. 

And yet, it’s only verging on seven in the morning when James shoots out of Teddy’s fireplace in a haze of emerald green, one such sacred Sunday. Teddy appears to be the exception to a lot of things. 

“I’m just putting it out there,” James says aloud, to the seemingly empty flat, trailing soot along the rug, “that I hate everything about this moment. I hate that I’m awake, I hate that I’m not in bed, and I hate that I didn't burn to death in the fireplace on the way here.”

Teddy pokes his head around the doorway of the kitchen, stares directly into James’s eyes and says, “Albus? Is that you?”

“Oh, fuck you.” James flips him off. “I could be in bed right now, and instead I’m here, being insulted. At least have the decency to greet me with bacon.”

Teddy cracks a grin and darts back into the kitchen. James ignores the open door and trudges across the wide open living room, moving to say hello to the swallows nesting in the yellow cage near the window. The window leads out onto the fire escape, which is crowded with flimsy shades of green and pink; a paper garden of rosebuds and irises and tulips, in their paper boxes, buried in shredded heaps of brown paper soil. 

The swallows open and close their mouths when James clucks at them, but no sound escapes their paper beaks. They have a few details etched onto them in faded charcoal, but even without the finer details, they look pretty and delicate, elegant in their simplicity. 

The cage is made of paper too, thousands of butter-yellow sheets twisted and folded to make a structure that won’t fall down at the lightest breath, a home for birds. Almost everything in Teddy’s flat is made of paper, to the point where James sometimes gets nervous about sitting down. He once squashed several sleeping paper frogs with his arse, and even though Teddy redid the folds easily enough, the creases never quite came out of their glum expressions. That’s probably where their hatred stems from. Frogs, it appears, are excellent at holding grudges. 

“Still not given you a voice, has he?” James asks, poking his fingers through the bars of the cage. It stays strong, sturdy, barely rattling. “What an inconsiderate bastard. Don't worry, I’ll talk to him.”

An incoherent shout of frustration rings out of the kitchen. James leaves the birds in their feather-light cage and finds Teddy in the kitchen, surrounded by mess. There’s scissors, abandoned in the height of their prime, a few sticks of glue, and mountains upon mountains of lavender paper. Teddy has one hand fisted in his hair. 

James props his hip against the door frame. “Okay, so there’s no breakfast waiting for me even though you specifically asked for my help, and you seem like you’re one step away from murdering yourself and everyone on earth with those scissors, so I already regret coming here.”

“I’m trying to make boxes.” There’s no plausible reason for the way Teddy spits the words out, as though they’ve attacked his morals and insulted his Gran all in one go. 

“Uh, right. I’m gonna need coffee. And bacon,” James adds hopefully, eyeing Teddy’s fridge. 

Teddy barely glances up. He does nod, though, and a frying pan zips out of the cupboard and sets itself on top of the stove. The hob begins to heat up, and the fridge door opens, revealing packets of glorious bacon. 

“Have I ever told you,” James says, stumbling towards the stove like a man lost in a desert, finding water for the first time in days, “that I find you insanely attractive when you do wandless magic?”

He’s too busy scrabbling around in the fridge and then searching for a spatula to spot Teddy’s reaction, but he sure as hell hears the strangled, “What?”

He half-turns, catches Teddy’s gaze. He's ghostly-white, with mousy hair. There’s an almost wild look in his eyes, a look that could possibly be fear. James puts down the packet of bacon slowly, near the hob. He's missed something here. 

And then he registers what he just said, what he just admitted straight to Teddy's face. His pulse takes off, racing at an unhealthy rate. 

“Uh, nothing.”

Teddy looks so disbelieving that James winces. No use in passing it off as a joke then. James buries his face in his hands with a groan, praying that his bed will come to his rescue, sweeping him off out the window and sailing away while he succumbs to a dreamless sleep. 

“Okay, not nothing. Fuck, it’s too early for this.”

Teddy says his name softly. James steels himself, peering through his fingers, and his heart stutters in confusion when Teddy smiles at him, small and understanding. He no longer looks so scared, so anxious. His hair grows darker in colour with each passing second. 

“Sorry,” James says quietly. He’s not quite sure what he did wrong, but he probably should have seen it coming. Teddy’s an open book with a beautifully expressive face, sure, but he’s still relatively private. He doesn't talk about sex, not really. He doesn't make comments about people in magazines or anyone he finds hot. He's private about this stuff. James just overstepped, that’s all. 

“That’s okay,” Teddy says, soothing. “Hey, James?”

“Yeah?”

Teddy grins. “Nice pyjamas.”

James looks down at his thick, fleecy pyjama pants, and the oversized yellow shirt. Neither of them are his. They’ve both made their way from Teddy’s wardrobe to James’s gradually. He snorts, glancing back up at Teddy, unsure about where to take the conversation now. But he rolls with the punches. 

“Thanks,” James says. “Stuff always feels warmer when you steal it. If you’re gonna complain about my state of undress though, I’m going to have to stop you right there, since you’re the one that demanded I get here stupidly early.”

Teddy rolls his eyes, sighing as he turns back to the paper, a hint of a smile on his face. “I wasn’t complaining. Why don't you make your breakfast, and then we can talk, if you want.”

James definitely wants, because he has _absolutely no idea_ what’s going on. He doesn’t think Teddy’s flirting. He’s never seen Teddy flirt in his life before, and once he actually saw Teddy double-take when Lily implied that the cashier he’d been chatting too had clearly been flirting back. The afternoon had been full of vehement denials and confusion on all fronts that only floated away when soothed with ice cream. 

But some of his comments sound so suggestive that James genuinely isn’t sure what to make of them. And sometimes it feels as though there’s an undercurrent of something beneath their interactions, but so far James has been convinced that he’s the only one feeling it. And maybe he is. 

“Sure,” James says eventually, as Teddy folds and unfolds a corner of a new paper square, concentrating. “But I’m not cooking you anything.”

Teddy makes little complaints at that, but James ignores him, smiling to himself with his back to Teddy. He cooks himself a bacon sandwich, makes a cup of tea, and then relents and makes another, eating his own at the stove while everything sizzles in the pan. 

“Don't say I never do anything for you,” James says, pushing Teddy’s sandwich across the table a few minutes later, along with his tea. Teddy looks up distractedly, then grins at his food. 

“Thanks, Jamie, and you know I’d never. Not much point in an assistant that never does anything for me, after all.”

James snorts, sipping at the last half of his tea. “Yeah, ha, I deserve the boss position by now.”

“Do you even know how to do a squash fold?”

“Do _you?”_ James asks abruptly, putting down his mug in favour of staring, aghast, at the mess on the table. Teddy’s surrounded by scrunched up bits of paper, some ripped and some torn, some mangled beyond recognition. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I told you.” Teddy sighs, biting savagely into his sandwich and muffling his next words. “I’m making boxes.”

James waits, but no other explanation seems forthcoming. As though that’s enough of an explanation for the complete and utter destruction he sees before him. 

“And… a box stole your one true love right out from under your grasp, so you’ll never forgive them for as long as you breathe?”

Teddy chews and swallows, shooting him a mulish glare. “No, James. I don't know.” He puts down his sandwich with a sigh. “It sounds stupid when I say it out loud.”

“Probably, but you can’t look any more insane than you already do,” James says cheerfully. He softens when Teddy glares at him again though. “It’s me, Teddy. Even if I do laugh, I’m not laughing _at_ you. You know me better than that.”

It takes a few seconds before Teddy nods. And then an explanation spills forth, slow and halting, lacking in confidence the way that Teddy never does. Not where people can hear him, anyway. 

He talks about not fitting in with his mates, with _anyone,_ and not wanting to squish himself into a box that he couldn’t possibly fit inside. He talks of not liking sex, not even the thought of it, and of not going on dates because there’s so much expectation for what happens at the end of a date, and it makes him uncomfortable, the idea of being intimate with someone he barely knows. 

James listens, wide-eyed, as Teddy pours his frustrations out over the table, dismantled boxes lying still beside his hands. 

He mentions having something of a crush for a friend, a deep crush that filled all of him, and for a moment James’s hopes soar even though he doesn’t want them to. But then he goes on to say that it was while he was at Hogwarts, and Sam got a girlfriend, and how nothing ever came of it. It crushed Teddy, and now he feels apprehensive at the thought of making friends, simply because he doesn't want to fall for them, and feel those same fleeting feelings as before so deeply. Only to have them taken away. 

James crushes down any twisting feelings of disappointment ruthlessly. 

Teddy talks of feeling afraid that there’s something wrong with him, and that he’s going to be alone for a long time, and that he might even be okay with that, which is even weirder to everyone else’s eyes. His voice is the most heartbreaking thing about it all; the way he sounds so quietly resigned, the way he grows tentative, as though he expects James to laugh or scoff, or call him a freak. 

It hurts a bit, to be suspected of such a thing, but James swallows it back. This moment isn’t about him. 

"I like who I am," Teddy finishes. "I'm fine with it. But I don't know why I'm this way, or what's wrong with me, and so I don't know how to explain it to anyone, you know?"

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” is the first thing James says, when Teddy finishes speaking, dragging his tea towards him. He expects Teddy to deflect, to avoid that truth, but he doesn’t. He just looks up at James, waiting, always interested in what James has to say. 

“I’m serious,” James says, leaning slightly over the table to make sure his words hit home. “There’s nothing wrong with you. I bet loads of people feel like that, and they just keep it quiet, like you do! Just because you’re different doesn’t mean you’re wrong.” He hesitates, and then adds, “But I get it, I think. Not all of it, but when I was figuring myself out, I didn't know which labels to use. There’s so many, and they’ve all got loads of history and community behind them, which can be great. But sometimes you just want to know who you are.”

He flushes, scrambles to say that he’s reached his limit of cheesy sayings, but Teddy’s looking at him like he’s something new and bright. Freckles are appearing on his cheeks again, and his hair is a shade too bright to be James’s auburn colour, but the red is almost familiar. 

“Yeah, exactly,” Teddy says, grinning slowly at him. 

“I think, if you want to, you’ll find someone you want to be with, and whether or not you want to have sex with them won’t even matter to them.” James nods firmly when Teddy looks disbelieving. “Because you’re great, Teddy. Like really, really great. And sex isn’t everything.” He pauses, shrugging. “Okay, it’s pretty damn good sometimes, but it’s still not everything. So you’ll work that stuff out if you want to, and if you don't want to, that’s fine too. There’s nothing weird about you except for your singing, magical, grudge-holding frogs.”

Teddy doesn’t say anything at first. Then, with his eyes shining, he says, “Are you trying not to be embarrassed about how sappy that was?”

“Oh, shut up,” James mutters. 

The way Teddy laughs makes up for his red cheeks. 

“Thank you for telling me, by the way,” James says, after he’s swept the mangled remains of the boxes into the bin. No boxes, not for now. It’s not like the shop’s suffering without them, so he reckons they can wait to tackle that later, if Teddy ever wants to. It's the whole reason why Teddy asked him over, to help make boxes, but it doesn't feel like a wasted effort even though they're just going to play Scrabble now. 

“I know it’s awkward and hard to talk about this stuff, but I appreciate it." James shrugs. "I like that we can talk about things like this. And I won’t make any other sexy remarks unless they’re specifically about how hot I am.”

He says the last bit teasingly, but he’s not even the least bit joking. As long as it doesn’t make Teddy uncomfortable, he’s going to be pointing out every delightful bit about him, just to ease the tension. 

Teddy shoves him gently, grinning, as he puts the empty mugs in the sink with a handful of paper boats. Suds fill the sink, and the washing up begins without so much as a word. James doesn't know what the organic connection between boats and washing up liquid is, but he still finds it amazing. 

“Thanks for listening to me," Teddy says. "And for saying everything you did. I might not believe it yet, but I… I think you might be right about some things.”

“Only some?” James puts a hand on his chest, mock-offended. 

"Maybe more than some." Teddy brushes a knuckle over James’s cheek gently, smiling as he ignores James’s dramatics. James stills, leaning into the unexpected touch. "And it’s never awkward with you, Jamie.”

That is a blatant attack on his skill at making things incredibly uncomfortable for innocent victims, such as his darling little brother, but James leaves it be. He knows what Teddy means. And it’s easy enough to admit that there’s nobody James is more comfortable with than Teddy, so the feeling, at least in that regard, is very much mutual.

*

“Mum, what do you know about different sexualities? Other than the fact that they’re confusing as fuck.”

Mum has her feet on the desk, a chunk of pork pie buried in her mouth, and a thoughtful expression on her face that freezes when James asks his question. She swings on her chair, feet sliding along the desk, and peers over a stack of paperwork at him. The paperwork has piled up over the last few weeks, with him spending more time at Teddy’s shop than at his actual job some days. But his mum’s his boss, so the fallout isn't too bad. 

“I’m getting a weird sense of deja vu,” Mum says, eyeing him with mischief in her gaze. “Just because you’re bisexual doesn’t mean you have to come out twice, James.”

James puts down his quill, giving up on the pretence of actually writing anything useful with it, and screws up the bit of parchment he was scribbling on. Mum ducks out of the way when he lobs it at her across their shared office. 

“Personally, I don't think one celebration was enough, but fine.”

Mum snorts, putting the rest of her pork pie on a file full of photographs. “One was more than enough, if you ask me.”

James pictures the large blue stain on the ceiling of his parents kitchen, courtesy of his rather explosive coming-out party, and grins sheepishly. 

“Yeah, probably. That’s not what I meant though.”

“Why were you asking then?”

James hesitates. “For someone else. They’re not… too keen on labels and boxes, but that might be because they’ve never found one that fits them. They don't actually know what’s out there.”

Mum sits up in her chair, flicking her fringe out of her eyes. It was a shock when she cut it short for the first time, almost shorter than Dad’s, but it suits her sharp face, her bright eyes. She fixes James with a small frown. 

“Did they ask you to look into this?”

“No,” James admits. “And I know what you’re gonna say! That I should leave it alone and it’s none of my business, and not to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong because someone might get hurt. I know all that!”

“I’m much better at this parenting thing than I thought I was,” she says, grinning as she settles back in her chair. “Look, you asked me this for a reason, James. And you have a big heart, so I know you just want to help. But the best thing you can do for this person is to be there for them while they figure it out. You can’t do it for them.”

James exhales heavily. He can remember Teddy’s face, pinched with fear and then soaked in miserable confusion as he tried to answer his questions. Questions that he didn't actually have any answers to. 

“James,” Mum says, a tad more sternly and he looks up, nodding reluctantly. “Good. You’re a good person, Jamie. Just be their friend, offer to help if they need it. I’m sure they don't need much more than that. Now, do you want this back, or was this just a really shit draft?”

She holds up the crumpled ball of parchment that he threw at her, laughing as he sends another one sailing her way.

*

“Why do you use paper and not parchment?”

The question doesn’t phase Teddy, like it’s normal to have a shadow that speaks ceaselessly and refuses to bugger off. James might be taking advantage of Teddy’s nice, easy-going nature to wring every magical detail from him lately, but that’s only because he has a plan. 

He might not be a Slytherin, but he knows that a plan has to be carefully thought-out venture if he wants it to succeed. He promised Mum he wouldn't meddle, but she said he could be supportive. And plans, when executed well, can be extremely supportive. 

“Parchment is made out of vellum, and animal skins,” Teddy says idly, as though the words aren’t disgusting enough to make James stop swinging his feet on the bathroom counter. “It has a connection with nature, but not one I really want to expand on. Paper is made out of trees, which is more organic, and easier to manipulate with emotional magic, like the kind I use for these charms. It also keeps the folds in place better than parchment does.”

James mulls this over while Teddy fiddles about with the bath, putting the plug in place and turning on the cold tap. 

“That’s really gross,” James says eventually. “I’m already mad that we have to use quills instead of pens, but we’re writing on animal skin. Animal skin! Like it’s still the olden days.”

Teddy chuckles, twisting the tap off. Six inches of clear, cool water fills the bottom of the bath. 

James gets handed several curved paper clouds between one breath and the next. He lays two carefully on his lap, and holds the other one up to the pale bathroom light. He spots a slit in the bottom, underneath the flat line. They’re like cartoon clouds, like the kind found in a children’s drawing, overly puffy and plump.

“What are we doing with these?”

“Something fun, hopefully,” Teddy says, lifting his own cloud. He blows gently in the gap between the paper. The cloud grows in his hand, puffing up until it’s fat and round. Teddy takes his hand away, and the cloud floats in mid-air, waiting for a command. 

“Brilliant,” James breathes, still just as awed as he was the first time he saw Teddy’s peculiar brand of magic. Teddy looks just as proud as he did the first time too. 

“Go on then,” Teddy prompts him. 

James has more clouds than Teddy, but it’s good practice for the plan he hasn’t quite put in place yet. The plan that Teddy knows nothing about, which means he’s either indulging James’s excitement for paper magic, or he’s being incredibly lazy. Probably a mix of the two, knowing Teddy. 

James huffs and puffs until three more clouds join Teddy’s in mid-air. 

“They feel soft,” James says, grinning as he strokes one gently. “Still like paper, but soft. A bit like sheep.”

Teddy grins at him sideways. Then he produces a paper fan from his pocket and buffets the flock of clouds across the room, until they hover above the bath. 

“Now we just need a command.” Teddy folds the fan up expertly, humming in thought. “Absorb?”

The clouds seem to agree with the command. They grow faintly misty for a brief second, flattening ever so slightly as though pressed with an upright iron. The bathwater trembles. It continues to tremble as slick drops of water begin their journey up, lifting in steady streams of quavering raindrops, ignoring the insistent, petulant tug of gravity. 

James hops off the bathroom counter and shuffles closer in Teddy’s slippers, taking in the way the paper bloats and blossoms, the clouds growing heavy and grey. Grey turns to black. The clouds quake, dreary bellies full of water sitting high above the bath.

“Now what?” James asks, voice oddly hushed. Teddy’s face is ecstatic, his whole body tense, like there’s lightning zipping through him. 

“Now it _rains,”_ Teddy says, making the last word a command with the simplest, subtle inflection of his voice. 

Ink falls from the clouds, pattering against the empty surface of the bath. James laughs, leaning over to dip his finger in the rapidly-expanding ocean of ink. It comes back wet and shiny, a veritable quill. He holds it up, laughing again. 

“Paper clouds that rain ink,” James says. An ink smear joins the faint splatters of mud on his jeans when he wipes his finger off. “Teddy, you know this is brilliant, don't you?”

Teddy’s expression is surprisingly cocky when he looks over at James. “It’s not too shoddy.”

James snorts with laughter. Cocky is a good look on Teddy, but James has been trying not to focus on the simmering heat of attraction he feels lately, ever since Teddy admitted that he doesn't really feel it at all. It's hard, when Teddy looks like that, but it's doable. 

The bath continues to fill with ink as the clouds grow smaller, fading with each lost drop of transformed ink. James stares at the ebony depths and remembers one summer day, when he was ten and shifting restlessly beside Teddy, waiting to be shown just a small piece of the magic that seemed to cling to Teddy at all times. 

Back then, Teddy had still been a marvel, even if James didn't quite want to settle on a word or a feeling to describe him. Settling meant having something to miss when Teddy inevitably went away on his grown up adventures, while James stayed behind and did his growing up. 

Now, he’s alright with settling. If only because he isn’t going to let Teddy get too far away without following along, cheerfully demanding why he’s being an isolating, self-sacrificing arse. Teddy's a marvel, and Teddy’s stuck with him. 

But even if things are different now, James still remembers the sense of breathless wonder as a paper sardine began to dance in the water, flitting up above the surface and then diving down deep again, as though it lived and breathed. 

“Hey, did you ever figure out how to fold a Butterfly fish?”

Teddy jerks in surprise, eyes wide as he wheels around to stare at James. “You remember that?”

“Tedward.” James puts a lot of effort into making his voice as deadpan as possible. “I was ten, not two. And you brought a paper fish to life without a wand, without even talking, which is more than most adults can do. Of course I remember it.”

“That, and the sardine splashed you in the face with water.”

“That too,” James agrees. “Mostly the other, more important stuff that I just said though.”

When Teddy finishes laughing, both at James’s annoyed expression now and the memory of his shocked one then, he straightens up and comes to bump their hips together.

“No, I never learned how to fold one. I kind of gave up. I said fruit was hard to fold, but honestly, I’d take a whole roast dinner over Butterfly fish.”

“You’re not one for giving up.” James leans slightly into his warmth, trying not to feel too guilty for the touch. But Teddy leans in too, barely hesitating. Fluttering fills his stomach. James imagines it’s what a pool full of Butterfly fish would feel like, should he happen to swallow it.

“Yeah.” Teddy grins sheepishly, his hair flickering until it turns a childish, candyfloss pink. “But Butterfly fish are really fucking annoying.”

James snickers, bumping Teddy’s hip back. God, it’s nice here. Not just in Teddy’s flat, which feels like home now even though it hasn’t been that long since he started popping round. But right here, where Teddy is. It’s nice, even when they avoid all the hard things, like Butterfly fish and boxes. 

And just like that, the plan slowly forming in James's head comes into full view, blueprints unrolling in his mind. He sneaks a look sideways at Teddy, full of excited hope. 

If it works, it should, at the very least, convince Teddy that there's absolutely nothing wrong with him. 

“Think the weather’s brightened up,” Teddy says. 

The clouds have faded away. 

“You’re still such a nerd,” James tells him. Once glance at the bath full of ink makes him grin, wide and gleeful. “You’re going to need a lot of inkwells.”


	3. Teddy

When a postcard comes one morning from Victoire, its delicate script detailing how beautiful France is this time of year, and how she’s tempted to move into The Louvre, Teddy doesn’t expect to see her for at least a few more weeks. It’s upsetting to realise that he hasn’t missed her as much as usual; Victoire has been a constant in his life since they were very small and he couldn’t decide whether he liked her or not, and usually he misses her so much that it makes him crazy. And he does still miss her, obviously, but lately he’s been distracted. 

But now that he’s picturing her sunning herself or strolling around galleries in a floppy hat for the next few weeks, a handsome tour guide sticking to her heels, he finds himself sulking slightly. Now that he thinks about it, he misses her more than he thought he did, and she’s apparently not going to be back for ages. 

So when she strides through the door of Lupin’s Paper Peculiarities the very same morning that the postcard arrives, Teddy finds himself not sure how to process it. 

“What,” Teddy says, frozen behind the counter. 

Victoire rolls her eyes. People have stopped in their tracks at the sight of her, instantly smitten. She carries a smudgey halo of silver about her person that draws the eye; some people have even paused in the street to peer through the window, not even bothering to pretend that they’re not goggling. 

“Is that the best I get?” Victoire demands, her smart trousers billowing around her ankles as she crosses the room. “Honestly, you’re running a business now, Lupin. Your manners should be better than this.”

Teddy gets a kiss to his cheek and a fleeting, sharp smile before his brain kicks into gear. 

“Sorry, I meant to say _what the hell?”_

Victoire clicks her tongue, sweeping herself up onto the counter to look down at him. It reminds him of James, and the way he perches on anything in reach, like the paper birds do. The difference is, Victoire stays still where she sits; no drumming fingers, no swinging legs and kicking heels, no endearing bouts of flailing arms that are a danger to those in the vicinity. She’s a tad taller than Teddy up there on the counter. 

Teddy waits before he grows a few inches, just in case she’s secretly in a bad mood. 

“It’s not that hard to understand, Ted,” Victoire says, reaching out to pinch his cheek. “I was in France, and now I’m here. Wonderful, the magic of International Travel, isn’t it?”

Teddy rolls his eyes, feeling around for a silk pouch when he spots a customer headed towards him, clutching one of the paper clouds. They went on sale a few days ago, after a week of fine-tuning with James, and they’re already one of Teddy’s fastest-selling products. 

“I only got your postcard about an hour ago,” Teddy explains, after he bags up the paper cloud and gives the guy a card with simple, careful instructions written on it. The guy lingers, making gooey eyes at Victoire, but eventually buggers off when she doesn’t even deign to look at him. Teddy scowls at his back. 

Victoire wrinkles her nose. “I sent it three days ago. Bloody postal system.”

“You just have a lazy owl.”

“Odette is a creature of grace, and I won’t have you besmirch her honour this way.” 

Teddy stays blank-faced for only a few seconds before a grin cracks over his face, echoed by Victoire. “God, I’ve missed you.”

“Missed you too, nerd.”

After the busiest day in history, Teddy shuts the door on one last pouting customer and ushers Victoire upstairs to his flat, talking quietly as they ascend the wooden steps. At his door, more wind-chimes sing with pleasure at their entry, and Teddy thinks of the way James always tips his head back to watch them spin, or reaches up to poke them. 

James is always on Teddy’s mind lately. Even when James is off doing other things, he feels near. 

“Coffee?” Teddy asks, heading for the kitchen. 

“Nope, but grab two glasses.”

Glancing back in time to see her produce an entire dimpled bottle of strawberry wine from her bra is something of an experience. She wiggles the bottle temptingly, but Teddy doesn’t need much persuasion. He summons two glasses and follows her into the living room, both of them grinning and pushing each other, settling on the rug with a laugh.

Three fifths of the way through the bottle, Victoire stops suddenly and peers up at him, head in his lap. 

“I can see up your nose from here.”

Teddy wrinkles it in response. “I thought you were gonna say something profound.”

“I was, but then I got distracted. Anyway, you’re smiling more. That’s what I was gonna say. You look happy and glowy.” Victoire waves a hand hazily in front of his face before letting it flop back onto her stomach. “I like that you’re all happy. So the shop was a good idea, right? Or did something else turn you into a shiny new person?”

“I’m always like this,” Teddy protests, reaching out to tweak her nose. She’s a heavy weight in his lap, but a comfortable one too. 

“C’mon, Teddy.”

Teddy sighs, flopping his head against the couch cushion behind him. Birds are singing in the cage nearby; Teddy finally gave the Swallows a voice, courtesy of James’s nagging. There are paper clouds hovering on the ceiling, being circled lazily by sleepy planes. 

He knows what Victoire means, but he doesn’t feel like a shiny new person. He feels like the person he’s been trying to be all along. 

“I miss travelling with you,” she says, apropos of nothing. Maybe she’s worked out that he doesn’t really want to try and put his feelings into words, unsure of what they mean. Maybe she’s just tipsy. 

“Me too.” That’s an easy answer. “Trying weird food and staying in hostels. Watching you try not to throw up on that pregnant lady in Peru.”

“Nearly drowning in the ocean several times,” Victoire adds dreamily. “You remember those salt and vinegar Flobberworms we ate in Madrid?”

“Yeah.” Teddy shudders. “You know, I don't think that guy was even Spanish. Why did we trust him when he said he knew all about local food?”

Victoire starts laughing, her belly shaking as she scrunches her face up. Teddy glances down fondly. He told James that he tends to fall for friends, and it surprises him sometimes, that he hasn’t done the same with Victoire. Teddy is admittedly a romantic. At least, he’s a romantic in his head. He likes the idea of breakfast dates and dinner at home, in the comfort of another person, and he likes the thought of flowers and poetry and all the messy bits too. He likes the idea of romance, of falling in love. And with Victoire, there’s a definite connection, but his thoughts never stray into the romantic portion of his ridiculous brain whenever he thinks of her. But maybe it’s because Victoire feels like a sister, an unshakeable force in his life that he wouldn’t be without. 

“We could go travelling again, just for a bit,” Victoire suggests. “They have Magic Carpet races out in some secret desert that look fun. We just won’t tell any of our family, seeing as half of them are, you know, in law enforcement.”

“Maybe.” The urge to bugger off and see what’s out there in the world isn’t as strong, surprisingly. 

Teddy has a moment of bewilderment while he processes that. 

“We could get someone to watch your shop,” Victoire says, reaching up to prod his soft stomach. “If you think you could bear to let anyone else near it.”

Teddy doesn’t even have to think about it. “I trust James with it.”

There’s quiet from below. Teddy makes the mistake of looking down, wary but not wary enough, apparently. A slow, triumphant smile spreads across Victoire’s face, and she sits up, scooping her half-empty wine glass off the floor in one smooth movement. 

“Oh really?” Victoire downs the drink in one go and wipes her grinning mouth while Teddy resists the urge to flee. “Do tell.”

*

James is behaving oddly. Teddy can’t quite clarify how; it’s hard to put his finger on a particular oddness when James bounces from moment to moment, always doing the unexpected despite how familiar he is to Teddy. He’s around just as much as he was before Victoire arrived, perhaps more, but there’s something undeniably different about how he’s acting.

He sticks close to Teddy as they potter around the shop, and then veers away sharply mid-conversation as though he’s forgotten something, frowning and muttering. He keeps his distance for a while, but inevitably grows closer again, until the same thing happens. 

“You know you can touch me, right?” Teddy asks, reaching up to rearrange a flustered stack of paper peonies. James, who had cut off his sentence and snatched his hand away from Teddy’s shoulder just a second before, chokes on air. Teddy lets him have his moment. He might not be sexually inclined, and he might miss a few things here and there, but even he knows how that sounded. 

“Pardon?” James asks, sounding scandalised, when he finally gets his breath back. 

“You keep going to touch me, and then scurrying away like a mouse with its tail on fire,” Teddy explains, lips quirking when James scowls at the comparison. Teddy only thought of it because he was folding paper mice this morning; they’re good for keeping a home safe, like squeaking little wards that live in the walls. 

“I’m not,” James says, with great dignity, “scurrying anywhere!”

“Uh huh.” Teddy leaves the flowers be, watching their petals flutter before giving James his full attention. He’s not oblivious to the way James freezes, like a rabbit caught in a trap, and he’s not sure how that makes him feel. He tries to make his face look more approachable, kinder. “Look, I’m just saying, you can touch me. I like it. You don't have to walk around on eggshells, if that’s what you’re doing. I like touching you too, see?”

They’re already standing quite close. Teddy doesn’t have to reach very far to brush a hand through James’s hair, marvelling for a moment at the softness of the burned red strands under his fingers. It makes him swallow. He lets his hand fall away. James looks up at him, wide-eyed and a bit pink in the cheeks.

“Not just your furniture that’s handsy, is it?” James croaks. 

It’s a rare quiet day in the shop, so of course _that’s_ the moment that someone chooses to push through the door. And of course it’s Victoire, the one person who knows what Teddy is on the cusp of coming to terms with, with regards to James. Several cups of coffee floating beside her shoulder, her hair swept up in a busy, glossy bun. She looks knowingly at the distance between them. 

“I’m gonna go and put these back,” James says, whirling around with absolutely nothing in his hands. He heads for the shelves and makes a big show of grinning at Victoire on the way past, friendly as ever, which she returns with a wry smile. One of the coffee cups detaches from her followers and trails after James instead. 

“Morning,” Teddy says absently, when she reaches him. He’s still frowning at James. Victoire follows his gaze and huffs a soft laugh. 

“Morning. Trouble in paradise?”

Teddy shoots her a warning look, but doesn’t comment. Because yeah, there is, and he’s not sure why. 

“This is good, thanks,” he says instead, taking a sip from the coffee that floats towards him. It has a vaguely spicy scent, and something that tastes like Christmas at Hogwarts. “Cinnamon?”

“Not sure, I didn't listen. The pretty barista explained it to me, but… well, she was pretty. Hence the not listening.”

“I don't understand you at all,” Teddy says, shaking his head with a grin. 

“The feeling is mutual, Ted.” Victoire leans down to pluck a paper sunflower out of one of the baskets at their feet. There are lots lining the windows, beneath the floating shelves of other, more fragile flowers. Victoire touches the petals, each one glowing softly with yellow light, and says, “Are you going to do anything about that big mopey ball of suspicion over there?”

“Suspicion?” Teddy glances over at James. He has his back to them, standing on tiptoe to fiddle with the candles on the shelf. The windows are wet with drizzle, but sunlight pours through anyway, turning the interior misty. Bathed in that light, even the back of James looks astounding. Dizzying, almost. 

Teddy can appreciate that people are beautiful, gorgeous, stunning. He likes the way people choose to dress, and how they wear their hair, how they carry themselves and walk and laugh and talk. He likes the shape of people too, and how they can look comfortable when slouched over, and striking when stood tall, and there is an appeal in soft thighs and strong arms. 

People are pretty, but Teddy doesn’t generally want to do anything about it. He just likes to take it in, the way people are, and think about what he wants for dinner or the laundry that needs doing. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t see it. 

That doesn’t mean he’s unaware of how good James looks. Usually there are more important things about James to focus on. But he’s still aware that James is very handsome, and pretty in certain lights, and strong and lean. It just often fails to strike Teddy the way it does right now, for what feels like the first time. 

“Earth to Teddy.” Victoire waves the sunflower in front of his face, shards of light disturbing his vision, making him blink back to the present moment. She smirks behind her coffee, says, “Where’d you go? Somewhere nice?”

“I, yeah.” Teddy clears his throat uneasily. It’s not that he hasn’t felt like that before—there was Sam, after all, in Hogwarts. But that was when he was younger, and though it felt just as deep and intense at the time, it hadn’t come out of nowhere like that had. 

“Teddy,” Victoire says softly, her brows furrowing in concern. She glances briefly at James, now swivelling on his heel to dig about in a basket of paper toys. Her eyebrows go up. “Huh.”

“It’s not like that,” Teddy says instantly. Then he swallows, because in truth, he doesn’t know what it’s like. And Victoire already has an inkling anyway. 

Victoire tips her head to the side. A paper bird settles on her shoulder, pecking ineffectually at a stray wisp of her daffodil hair. She studies Teddy for a minute, then says, “The other night you talked about him for ages, about how you felt comfortable with him, and how great he is, and how he’s really funny and cheers you up and makes everything brighter, blah blah blah. You said you trusted him with your shop, Teddy, which is a pretty big deal. It wouldn’t be surprising if something came out of this.”

Teddy clears his throat again, straightening up as he turns back to the flowers. “What did you mean, when you said he was suspicious?”

She clicks her tongue, but doesn’t press her original point, the point Teddy is trying not to think about. “Did you tell him that we weren’t dating?”

Teddy almost falls into one of the floating shelves. His little strangled sound startles the tiny paper bird. It takes flight with a prissy shake of its wings, abandoning Victoire’s shoulder and making the short trip across the store in low swoops, where it drops down to rest on James’s head. James reaches up to stroke its wing carefully, gently. 

“Bloody hell,” Teddy says, turning sharply away. He steadies himself. 

He worked out, about a year or so ago, that paper connected to him because Teddy needed it to. He didn't understand all the things going on inside of him, all the feelings coalescing in his mind and heart, even that young, and magic is strongest when it’s emotional. So it was paper that he formed a connection with, in Ron’s bedroom all that time ago, when books fell off that shelf and opened up their pages for Teddy. It was Teddy and his magic and his confusion that reached out, and paper that answered. 

It’s his safety net, now, his soothing escape when he worries. Seeing James treat it with such tenderness is enough to steal his breath away.

“Bloody hell,” Teddy says again, because with that comes a lot of realisations. All those realisations he didn’t want to think about. 

“It’s not that big of a deal. People get jealous, Teddy. Not you, maybe, but everyone else does.” Victoire winks at him teasingly, and Teddy flounders for a minute, before he remembers the thread of their conversation. Victoire thinks he’s freaking out about the idea of James thinking they’re dating. Which he is, now, but he’s also busy with a whole host of bludgeoning thoughts and busy emotions. 

He manages to get his thoughts in order, focusing on Victoire’s words. 

“I do get jealous, but usually for people’s time, not because they have something I want.” Teddy waves a hand, scrunching his nose up. “Not that we would _have_ each other, even if it was like that.”

“So go tell him that, then. Put the poor boy out of his misery.”

Teddy spots James heading over and pushes down a wave of panic. He nods shortly, but mutters, “Later.” He pretends not to see Victoire’s eyes rolling. 

“What are we talking about?” James asks, bouncing towards them with his hands in his pockets. To anyone else, his smile looks big and bright, perfectly natural, but Teddy can see the strain at the corners. 

“Nothing,” Teddy says, before Victoire can embarrass all of them with the truth. “Just about whether you want to come to dinner tonight.”

James shuffles his feet, antsy but not like normal. He’s much further away than usual. “I usually do, don't I?”

“You’ve been rushing off lately, so I didn't know if you wanted to or not.”

James flushes, but rallies his grin. “Hey, if you’re making that pasta thing again, I’ll be there. I actually have something for you, anyway.”

Teddy decides not to analyse the relief in his chest, that James will be there. 

“Well, I can’t be there, but you two have fun. James, I’m coming to your next match, okay? Just in case a terrible accident befalls the current player and you get to play Reserve.” 

James pauses, his eyebrows raising. They share a slightly evil grin that has Teddy rolling his eyes fondly. 

“Right, well, I only came here to drop off coffee. Gotta dash!” Victoire sweeps her coffee cup up in her hands and heads for the door, barely pausing for goodbye’s. She turns and aims a pointed look at Teddy, and then waves herself out. 

The paper birds around the store droop sadly as one. 

James looks amused at her swift exit, but he’s still keeping a careful distance from Teddy. It’s more distance than Teddy wants between them, to his ever-growing surprise, and he resolves to fix it later. 

Teddy opens his mouth, ready to tell James the truth, and then stops. 

It would be weird, wouldn’t it, to casually bring up that he and Victoire weren’t dating. It would be out of place in the conversation that isn’t even happening. It would imply Teddy was thinking about what James might be thinking, that he thought James would want to know, even though James hasn’t asked. 

Grimacing, Teddy closes his mouth. Hopefully it’ll come up in conversation later. 

Teddy clears his throat. “So, what’s this gift you’ve got for me?”

“Nope,” James says, facing him with a grin, a much better grin now that they’re alone. “You’ll have to wait and see! And don’t try and guess, you’re getting nothing out of me. Not even a hint.”

“Does Albus know?” Teddy asks. James tells Albus pretty much everything, regardless of whether he wants to hear it, and Albus caves like a cream cake under the right kind of pressure. The whole family knows it. 

“Just wait until dinner,” James says hurriedly. “Please, Teddy!”

Which means yes, Albus does know. But one look at James’s pleading expression has Teddy deciding to wait anyway.

*

Teddy really hates it when Victoire is right. He especially hates it when she’s right about relationship stuff. He doesn’t like the fact that how he feels tends to leave him with a bit of a blind spot, a large space where he doesn’t operate the way that people expect, and so he’s got no idea how to proceed in that area.

But here are the facts: Teddy hasn’t had sex before. He’s only felt attracted to someone, sexually, once, and that someone had to be a close friend who liked who Teddy was before he felt that attraction. And then Sam, the close friend, had gone on to not feel the same way, not even slightly, and the resulting wave of painful feelings made Teddy wary of making new friends like that again. He didn't want to feel that crushed again. Still doesn’t. 

Here is another fact: Teddy will be fine if he doesn’t have sex. If he doesn’t grow so intensely close with someone again, then he’s never going to feel attracted to anyone again, he knows for sure. And the sex part of that doesn’t bother him. 

One more for the rope: A life without sex would be fine, but he sort of wants that romantic side of things, that closeness, even though it’s terrifying to think about. He wants the dates and comfort and messy parts. With the right person. With or without sex. 

And here is the last fact: Ninety-eight perfect of the time, Teddy has absolutely no name for the confusing feelings inside him, but he’s pretty sure that all of them, at this point in time, are pointed at James. And he’s less sure about whether James returns them, because the human brain is only logical to a certain point, but so far, all signs point to yes. 

God, he really, really hates it when Victoire is right. 

“This is annoying,” Teddy tells the large paper snail he’s working on. It looks a lot like Eggbert, the Giant Glurvian snail he used to talk to behind the Greenhouse. This one is a lot more talkative, somehow, wiggling its antenna and leaving gooey slime all over Teddy’s fingers as he fixes folds at the kitchen table. Eggberta, he decides, is decent enough. 

“I mean, I just figured out that I actually like being like this, you know?” Teddy prods at a wrinkle in the paper. “It’s taken ages to not give a fuck what people expect from me, or what they think I should want. I’m finally comfortable, feeling like this. Being me. And then something—someone—comes along and blows it all up. _James_ comes along and blows it all up. And now I have to deal with new stuff. Why does it have to change the minute you get comfortable? I have no fucking idea what to do about anything.”

Eggberta oozes helpfully all over the table. Teddy wipes a bit of sticky goo all over his thigh, unphased. He spent most of his childhood buried in mud, so he doesn’t mind of a bit of artificial snail slime. 

“If I end up selling any of you, I won’t market you as agony aunts, that’s for sure,” Teddy mutters to the snail. “Bloody useless.”

He feels immediately bad, patting Eggberta’s fragile paper head with a finger in apology. 

A large thump breaks the silence as the Floo activates, followed by a string of muffled curses. Teddy rises half out of his chair, reaching for his wand, but the voice is familiar enough that he doesn’t worry. 

Teddy glances at the oven, where a pasta tray-bake is cooking slowly inside, filling the room gradually with a rich tomato scent. Dinner’s not ready yet, but he’s never complained about James being early before, and he’s not about to start now. 

“James?”

“Don't come in here!” James yells. “I’m using the living room, and you’re not allowed in here, okay?” 

Teddy sits back down, surprised and amused. 

_“Okay?”_ James demands.

“Okay, sure, Christ, James, don't bite my head off.” Teddy chuckles to himself, curiosity welling up inside him as he listens to dragging sounds, and the rustle of… is that paper? Tapping his fingers on his sticky thigh, Teddy counts to ten in his head, and when there’s no noise from James, he gets up and strides around the table. 

James meets him in the doorway, looking harassed and a bit out of a breath. He narrows his eyes up at Teddy. 

“Were you coming into the living room?” 

Teddy’s cheeks puff up, and his ears grow pointy, a sure sign of guilt. He shrugs when James arches an eyebrow at him. 

“You sounded like you were dying.” Teddy takes a step forward. “I was just concerned for a friend.”

James scoffs, but waves him through the doorway. “Luckily for you, I finished anyway.”

In the living room, nothing looks different. Teddy frowns at the paper plants on his fire escape, the new paper robins in his cage that he put there yesterday, the sleeping train on the track around the edge of the room. Balls of paper are scrunched up on the ground, and books are open here and there, the result of a restless afternoon. 

“Look down, you big tree,” James says fondly. “C’mon, you should be used to towering over everything by now.” 

Teddy looks down. There’s a long rectangle of bright blue paper on the floor. Teddy raises his eyebrows in surprise, spotting the creases at the side. It’s not just one sheet, he realises, crouching to examine it. 

“You bought me a stack of paper?” Teddy asks, tipping his head back to look curiously up at James, one hand on the floor to stay balanced. “Not that I’m not grateful, or anything, but it sounded like you were struggling with more than this.”

“Oh believe me, I was. Okay, ready?”

“For what?” Teddy holds his other hand up in surrender when James glares at him. He stands swiftly, standing beside James, the stack of paper in full view, and gives James a bemused smile. “I’m trusting you not to break anything here. Ready.”

“Absolutely no faith,” James mutters. He clears his throat, reaching for his wand, and waves it over the stack of paper. Then he says, with a familiar inflection, “Unfold.”

The rectangle grows. It’s not a stack, Teddy realises swiftly, voice caught in his throat. It stretches out like an accordion, growing up. Walls form, corners fold down, and a large, rectangular cuboid takes shape in the middle of Teddy’s living room. A box. 

“Clear,” James says, the same inflection in his voice. It’s a command, like the kind Teddy uses for paper, but Teddy didn't make this. Teddy didn’t tell James how to do it either; it’s intuitive for him, so James must have been studying him for a while, learning the tricks of the trade quietly. 

The walls of the box grow thin and transparent, like glass. The lid stays blue, but the base is black, dotted with odd blue shapes. It looks, after a second stunned glance, like a tank. 

“Jamie,” Teddy says, unsure. 

James has a paper cloud in his hands when Teddy turns to look at him. He gives Teddy a hopeful smile, and he gives in quickly, nodding. There’s a strange feeling in his stomach. 

James pulls out an inkwell. The cloud siphons up the ink, and Teddy laughs lightly as it floats over, fat and fluffy, and hovers over the large box. More clouds follow, each one full of ink, each one pulled from James’s pocket and blown up carefully. 

“Rain,” James says. The clouds quiver, like they’re not sure what to do, so Teddy adds his voice to the mix. He’s still not sure what’s going on, but it’s like he told Victoire. He trusts James. 

At their combined command, the ink falls, but it’s no longer black and thick. Halfway through the air, it turns to clear water. There’s no doubt in Teddy’s mind that it’s a paper tank now, steadily filling with water. When the clouds have faded into nothing, and the tank is almost full, Teddy steps a bit closer, surveying the paper walls and how they hold the water like it’s nothing. 

“This is clever magic,” Teddy says softly, proudly, kneeling in front of the tank. James clears his throat; apparently it’s not quite finished yet. 

Teddy turns expectantly, but James points at the tank, an almost nervous smile in place. 

“Breathe,” James says, but he isn’t talking to Teddy. 

The odd blue shapes on the base of the tank begin to grow. They balloon outwards slowly, the size of palms, and shiver until they’re upright. Inked eyes gleam. Tails shift slightly in the water. Blue scales glint and glimmer as the blue shapes begin to swim. 

“Butterfly Fish.” Teddy sucks in a breath, coming to several stunning conclusions. “You brought me a box of butterfly fish.”

James joins him in front of the tank, both of them kneeling. “I did. I mean, technically it’s an aquarium, but I figure it counts as a box. And you were right, by the way. Butterfly fish are stupidly hard to fold. I killed an ocean’s worth of potential fish just this last week.”

Teddy watches the fish swim about. They’re still made of paper, but they look so real, so alive. James learned how to make Butterfly fish for him. 

Teddy breathes in and out. “Why?”

“Because.” James stops, then sighs raggedly, shrugging. “Because you looked so upset when you talked about not knowing which box you fit into. And I know that you don’t have to fit into one, that you can just be you. But I thought it might be nice, y’know. To know that a box could be full of difficult things and still feel like home.”

Teddy tears his eyes away from the fish and stares at James. It’s impossible to look away, even as James begins to shift, uneasy, his cheeks and ears growing red, his chin coming up despite his obvious anxiety. 

“Jamie.” 

“I swear if you say something about that being too sappy, or whatever, I’ll dunk your head in there,” James mutters, jerking a thumb at the aquarium. 

“I think,” Teddy says, his voice thoughtful and low, “that it was just the right amount of sappy.”

Teddy puts a thumb on James’s jaw, tugs him close. He’s careful. He hasn’t done this in a while, and he refuses to let this be lackluster. He’s not sure it could be, not with the way his chest is full of heat and wonder and giddy excitement, but there’s always a chance. 

“Teddy,” James says, eyes wide and hopeful. “Fuck, are you—”

“Kissing you?” Teddy asks, just a few inches away. “I’m trying to.” He pauses for a minute, just a breath away, noses nudging, and adds, “I’m not dating Victoire, by the way. And I like you a lot.”

James says something about timing and starts to laughs breathlessly. This close, Teddy can feel it, and as he kisses James quiet, he can taste it too.

*

Teddy sketches an angular shape in the air with his wand. The stacks of newspapers by the door grow shorter, shrinking rapidly as each layer unfolds itself with a soft snick, taking flight on the wings of a spell. Paper birds and dragons fill the study, soaring briefly around the room before settling on the carpet, shielding it from harm. The carpet is new, still soft and free of stains, and Teddy would like to keep it that way for as long as possible.

He’s grown from having to use his hands to being able to manipulate paper with a few strokes of his wand, or sometimes just a thought in the direction of some scrap parchment. He’s grown used to the ease it, but that doesn’t mean all the pleasant, soothing feelings have faded when he crafts something beautifully alive out of simple paper. It is still an escape, even if he doesn’t need it all that often anymore. 

“D’you think you’ve got enough newspaper?” James asks, poking his head around the door-frame with a cheeky grin and disrupting the quiet. He’s good at that, at making noises where previously there was nothing but silence, and Teddy loves it just as much as he did when they were younger, when James’s voice filled every corner of each family gathering, or slipped down the edges of the grassy banks on a rolling laugh. 

There is rather a lot of newspaper on the floor. It starts to skirt up the edges of the walls, so Teddy nudges several sheets back down with a stern flick of his wand. James laughs behind him, warm and familiar, but not at Teddy. Never at Teddy, no matter how much it might seem like it to an outsider. 

Teddy half-turns his head, looks over his shoulder to aim a teasing look at James. “Maybe I just don't trust you not to make a mess.”

James’s offended sound cuts off when a stranger intrudes on their conversation. A paper dragon saunters through the air to nose at James’s cheek, curious. 

“Oi,” Teddy mutters, but the paper dragon ignores him; obviously a mark of James’s influence. He thinks the dragon might be a Swedish Short-Snout, since he was reading about them last Tuesday, after one of Rose’s letters came in the post, detailing every inch of her dragon training so far. 

He and Rose have been sending more letters to each other lately, courtesy of both James and Victoire poking their nose in. He’s offered to talk, if she’s home soon. She’s sent him resources, bits of printed paper detailing what Muggles call the asexual spectrum. Teddy’s perused the information tentatively, still not sure where he fits. He’s leaning, ever so slightly, towards something called Demisexuality. 

“Don't think it wants to listen to you, Ted,” James says, affecting an overly-sympathetic look, pouting his lips. “Looks like it prefers me.” James winks, scratching the dragon under its chin. “Wonder why that is.”

Teddy rolls his eyes, unable to find the will to argue. They tease each other about this often. About the fact that Teddy’s hair goes haywire in when James is around, and how his magic blankets James when he’s sleeping on the sofa, feet tucked under Teddy’s thigh, and how his spells are always stronger in James’s presence. 

It’s obvious, and that’s fine. James flies better when Teddy sits in the stands, cheering him on. Newly promoted, and he’s yet to lose a game. 

“Come on,” Teddy says, clucking his tongue at the paper dragon. Its flimsy tail, littered with smooth points, tickles James’s nose when Teddy coaxes it away. Something stirs in his chest at James’s wrinkled nose, his upturned mouth as he rubs where the dragon tickled him.

James grins knowingly at Teddy’s look, which is probably disgustingly soft, and moves fully into the room. “Seems like some part of you definitely trusts me. All the magical parts, anyway.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Teddy rolls his eyes, says, “That dragon’s going to change its mind once you’ve drowned it in paint.”

“I’m not _that_ bad.”

“Oh yeah?” Teddy summons the roller and the brushes from the hallway, where James’s boxes are still piled up, waiting to be unpacked. He holds one brush out to James, eyebrow cocked as he smirks gently. “Prove it.” 

Within ten minutes, there is paint everywhere. Half of the far wall is smeared with mint green, and the rest is still the same ugly off-white that it was when Teddy bought the place. 

James wipes the back of his hand across his forehead, frowning at his section of wall. A splodge of mint green secures itself a position above his eyebrow. 

“This would be easier if we used magic,” James says, reaching for his wand, tucked in his back pocket. But then he stops and withdraws his hand, narrowing his eyes slightly at Teddy’s smirk. 

“I didn't say anything,” Teddy says, before James can accuse him of something. He strokes his brush up and down his section of wall, which is far neater than James’s. The middle is a swathe of untouched off-white. Theoretically, they should meet roughly in the middle, but James has veered off and made shapes in his brushstrokes, so theory is already on its way out of the window. 

“Teddy,” James whines, slinking closer, newspaper shuffling beneath his socked feet. He’s wearing Teddy’s socks, at a second glance. Both black, but with green Hippogriffs sewn into the ankles; a gift from Albus, whose propensity for buying somewhat shit gifts is world-renowned, unless it’s Scorpius he’s buying for. 

Teddy still doesn’t know what to do with the very specific emotion that emerges in his chest whenever he sees James wearing something of his. Sometimes he has no choice but to kiss James senseless, and sometimes he just looks, and sometimes he just wants to hold him close. 

“James,” Teddy says back, equally as whiny. “I didn't say anything. Use magic if you want.”

“You’re doing the thing where you act all smug, like you’ve won, even though this wasn’t a proper bet.” James prods him in the ribs with the hilt of his brush. 

Teddy’s laughing now. “I told you, I didn't say anything!”

“You didn't have to!” James prods him again, enough so that Teddy darts back out of reach, grinning at him. He holds his brush aloft, paint dripping on the newspaper. James eyes him for a moment, then gives chase with a shout. They rotate backwards around the study in an awkward, stilted dance, darting and jerking away from each other, taunting and laughing. 

James never catches him. He could, easily, and the fact that he doesn’t, the fact that he’s so easy and careful, is what makes Teddy stop and pull him in, earning a surprised grunt. 

“You know, you don't have to keep your distance. I told you I like touching you, didn't I? And that I like you touching me?” 

Teddy hugs James a little tighter, feeling him relax into the hold, arms linking easily around Teddy’s waist. It comes without the weight of suggestion that previous touches have always suffered from, from people who didn't understand what Teddy wanted or didn't want. Mostly because Teddy didn't understand it either and couldn’t explain it to them. But now he knows better. They’ve talked, stumbled, fumbled, and come across something that works. 

“And believe me, I love hearing that.” James grins against Teddy’s neck, soft auburn hair tickling his chin. “Like, a lot. But I’m still always going to give you space until you tell me you don't want it.”

“How chivalrous,” Teddy says, with a grin that’s irritatingly goofy. He’s glad that James can’t see, tucked away as he is, or he’d never hear the end of it. 

James snorts. “Not really. It just means I get to see you get fed up and crush me in one of these hugs.”

“And do this?” Teddy asks, reaching down to tug James’s head back gently, fingers twining in the thick hair near the top of James’s neck. James strangles a little sound, then lets it out in a sigh when Teddy kisses him. 

“Mm, and that,” James says, when they part reluctantly. His mouth twitches up into Teddy’s favourite smile. “We’re never gonna finish this room, are we?”

“The aquarium has to go somewhere,” Teddy points out. God, it still gives him a heart-stopping stutter to look at it, sitting pushed to the side in the living room. The butterfly fish are the first thing to make him smile in the morning, if James has left early for work. 

“My big romantic gesture, shoved in this tiny room.” James makes a big show of sighing, reaching up to put his arms around Teddy’s neck, playing with the back of his collar. “It’s enough to make a man feel insecure, y’know.”

“I very much doubt you’ve ever felt insecure in your life.”

Teddy knows that’s not quite true, but it’s still fun to watch James pull a face at him. 

“Actually,” Teddy adds, as a thought strikes him. “Speaking of insecure and big romantic gestures.”

James narrows his eyes, fingers pausing in their movements. “Yeah?”

“Victoire mentioned that you never really explained why you were being all weird, before we got together,” Teddy says. “I know she knows, but she won’t tell me. She said you were jealous, though, before.”

James groans, dropping his head forward against Teddy’s collarbone. Teddy doesn’t think he’s going to talk at first, but then he says reluctantly, “I mean, that’s basically it. I thought you and Vic were dating, and I got all weird and didn't know how to react, But I’d already learned all the spells for your aquarium, and like fuck I was gonna let that go to waste.” James draws back, expression softer, more knowing. “And it felt important for you to know anyway.”

“It was.” Teddy smiles, darts in to kiss him and then draws back before they can get carried away. “So you thought I was, what, dating Victoire?”

“Or getting there. You said that you tend to fall for friends, but it didn’t usually work out and you end up disappointed,” James explains, looking cross with himself. “I thought maybe Victoire was the friend that ended up being more and because you were kinda… coming to terms with yourself? Or figuring stuff out, you know, that you’d start to realise it. And I didn't want to watch it happen even though I was happy for you, obviously, so I avoided you for a bit.” James gains a bit of his usual cocky smugness then. “I didn't realise it was actually me that you were falling for.”

Teddy stares at him incredulously. There’s a lot to unpack there, but he goes for, “That was you _avoiding_ me?”

If anything, James was around more. He’d just been conspicuously grumpy and awkward the whole time. 

“Yeah, well.” James grimaces, his ears reddening as the cockiness fades away. He sighs, then shrugs. “ What can I say? Turns out I’m not very good at avoiding people if they happen to be called Teddy Lupin. Call it a flaw.”

Teddy laughs softly, can’t help it. He leans down and kisses James gently again, revelling in the warmth, aware that paint is drying in awful places on his clothes, and that they still have a wall need painting. But he doesn’t think he’s ever felt this happy before, and the rest of the world can wait while he enjoys that.

“No,” Teddy says, pressing their foreheads together while they catch their breath. He can feel freckles forming on his own cheeks, and James has new ones above his eyebrows, daubed there in mint green. “That doesn’t sound like a flaw to me. I think I’ll call it a relief instead.”

**Author's Note:**

> Complete! Just to mention, I am very firmly on the asexual spectrum, but obviously everyone is different and I may have got things wrong anyway, so please feel free to say if something doesn't feel right. 
> 
> I listened to a lot of music throughout this, but my favourite is 'Different, by James TW.' Just screams Jeddy in this story to me. Thank you to L, for being a wonderful beta. And thank you for reading and for your sweet comments, lovely people! This was such a lovely fest to take part in!


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